


Physicians and Phonographs

by whouffaldigarbage



Series: Physicians and Phonographs [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5886799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whouffaldigarbage/pseuds/whouffaldigarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Victoran AU. Clara is a maid overseeing the children of a large estate. Struggling with her own desire for freedom and the suitors pursuing her, she feels a profound lack of something in her life. One day, circumstances out of her control lead her to require the services of the mysterious and ostracized Doctor, and a friendship grows between them that leads to something more. Demons from their past come back with a vengeance, society seeks to tear them apart, the supernatural rears its ugly head, and their future stands on the precipice of extinction. Together or alone they could face it all, but the choice is not a simple one.<br/>Rated M for future chapters. Slow burn fic. Angst, humor, the supernatural, and stuffy Victorian romance, with a dash of the original tale of Beauty and the Beast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Victorian London. My first chapter fic, brace yourselves. Reviews would be very much appreciated.

The air was crisp and cool, cutting through the shawl Clara had wrapped round herself and caused her to shiver ever so slightly. Many she’d encountered didn’t care for the cold, but Clara rather enjoyed it, for it made her feel alive. Perhaps just feeling was living. Clara didn’t know, but she wished she did.

Her eyes followed young Teddy and Cecily as they ran and stumbled across the grounds and gardens on the estate. She was their carer, as their previous mistress had retired only last month. Clara lacked years of experience in the position, but she made up for it having known the Gregson family for most of her life. Her father had gone to university with Theodore Gregson, and Theodore Gregson married Bonnie Crane, and Teddy and Cecily came about not long after. Clara was thankful for the income, although she would never admit it, but she was getting older, and jobs were getting harder to find for a woman who, according to society, ought to have a husband by now to take care of her.

There had been suitors, certainly, but none of them made her soul soar or her cheeks flush with passion, as she knew ought to happen for it always did in the stories she read. Now, no longer a girl but a woman of twenty-six, she was very beginning to doubt herself having turned down so many potential husbands. Would she end up an old spinster like her aunt? She quivered at the thought, and yet she stubbornly found fault in every man who so much as cast her a passing glance on the street. Perhaps she was doomed to rear the children of others, experiencing muffled romance only through the brittle pages of books and adventure would always be just beyond the reach of her fingertips.

“Yo ho, Clarice!” a familiar voice sounded behind her. She turned to see Mr. Gregson looking rather puffed up in his new boisterous cravat stride towards her from the interior of the estate. “I’ve spoken with the maid, dinner will be pushed up to six for you and the children so you can put them to bed by eight.”

“And when shall you and Mrs. Gregson return?”

“Not til late, I imagine. Very late.” Gregson answered, pulling on his large moustache. “You know how these social engagements go. Well into the next morning, on occasion. I’ll attempt to rein Bonnie in if she really gets to talking, else we’ll never return!” he chortled at his own jest. “You know how women are.”

Clara smiled, for it was easier than disagreeing with him. “Go on, then, enjoy yourselves. I’ll make sure they’re tucked away by eight.”

Gregson nodded and wished her a good evening before departing round the side of the estate to meet the carriage in front. Clara turned back to look at the children play, and felt a wave of sadness slowly roll over her. She wondered if the Gregsons knew Cecily’s favorite spot to catch butterflies, or of Teddy’s favorite book as she did. She wondered if the children were too young to feel the profound lack of presence their parents had had in their lives thus far. Clara’s own father was barely a wisp of a memory in the recesses of her childhood mind, and it was painful when she was young. Now the scar tissue had gone numb with years.

A cry roused her from her thoughts, and she saw Teddy sitting on the ground clutching his leg, his little face contorted in pain. Clara hiked her dress up and ran to him, falling by his side. “Teddy, what’s happened?” The boy couldn’t speak, he was crying and screaming, gripping his ankle. When Clara tried to remove his hands to see, he only cried out louder. His voice was frightful with agony. “Cecily!” Clara called his sister close, and taking the young girl’s hand, “Run out to the street and hail a cab, your brother needs a doctor. Can you do that for me?” The girl nodded, eyes wide. “Good,” Clara said as calmly as she could manage. “Now you come right back to us when you’ve done that, to tell us it’s here. Off you go.” Cecily ran off towards the estate. Clara placed a soothing hand on Teddy’s forehead and brushed his hair back. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she intoned, holding his hand. “You’re going to be just fine. Breathe, Teddy.”

Teddy’s face had gone red, but he’d stopped screaming, which Clara hoped meant the initial shock of the injury was lessening. His face was wet with tears, and she tried her best to dry them as fast as they fell. Cecily’s voice distantly behind them announced the cab’s arrival. Clara shifted to her knees. “I need you to be very brave.” She said, stroking his hair. “I’m going to lift you now, and it may hurt. We’re going to a place that will make you feel well. Are you ready? One, two, three!” she lifted him as gently as she could, one arm beneath his knees, the other behind his back. Teddy let out a scream, but she couldn’t stop. Every step she took was jostling his surely broken ankle, and his cries grew in intensity, but he didn’t struggle. He held onto her and remained as still as he could, pressing his face into her bodice and whimpering between muffled cries. “My brave boy,” she whispered in his ear as she quickened her pace across the grounds towards Cecily. “My brave Teddy.”

The three of them cut through the house and towards the entrance. Clara called for the maid, who was already in the entrance hall looking startled from Teddy’s screams. She charged her to look after Cecily for the moment as she left with Teddy. 

Getting him into the waiting cab was challenging, but between herself and the waiting cabbie, they managed to get him horizontal within, his head resting on her lap. “A doctor, please, any doctor.” Clara told the cabbie.

The man scratched his chin. “The closest one’s twelve blocks from here, but he’s not a regular doctor.”

“Does he fix people?”

“Well sure, but he’s a bit—“

“Then take us to him.” Clara demanded in a tone that broached no argument. The cabbie raised his eyebrows in resignation before climbing atop the cabriolet and snapping the reins. The cab lurched forward and Clara held Teddy and continued to stroke his hair. His face had gone rather pale, poor dear, he was in so much pain. Perhaps his complexion wasn’t as stark as she imagined, she told herself; the sun was setting and washing everything in warm golds and oranges, distorting the color of flesh. Nevertheless, she felt her heart pound in her breast in worry over her young charge.

After a time, the cab slowed, and the driver climbed down to help her and the boy out. Teddy had a slight sheen of sweat across his face, and he hadn’t opened his eyes since they’d gotten into the cab. The two of them managed to remove him, and the cabbie insisted on carrying him to the door. Clara looked up at the rather small and crooked house squished between two larger stone homes along the street. It was painted a rather obnoxious shade of deep blue, but the paint was chipping and must have been at least a score old. A dim yellow light was perceived coming from within. A faded old sign hung above the door from an iron bar that squeaked as it swayed in the wind. Clara marched up the steps and knocked on the door before her trepidation could stay her hand. Four solid knocks echoed within the house and she waited nervously. Her eyes traveled up to the sign and tried to make sense of the strange markings on it that would declare this a doctor’s residence. Circles and dots within other shapes—the markings made no sense. She was just about to turn back to the cabbie to ask what the sign was, when a lock on the interior of the door clicked open. She watched, eyes wide, as the door slowly opened a crack.

“Yes?” a deep voice demanded from within. It sounded inherently cross.

“Pardon me, I-I’m looking for a doctor?” Clara frowned nervously, suddenly doubting the sanity of the cabbie, as well as the sanity of the voice. 

The door opened a bit more, but not enough to reveal the man through the gloom within. “A doctor?” the voice doubted. 

“Yes, a young boy’s hurt his ankle.” Clara returned doubt in her own voice. “Are you the doctor?”

She nearly leapt backwards off the steps at the sudden force at which the door flew open. Before her stood a gentleman with rumpled silver hair sticking up in odd places, ink stained fingertips and ink-spotted cuffs, looking unkempt and rather mad, staring at her with huge grey eyes. “I am the Doctor.” He pronounced, one hand on his plaid trousered-hip. She realized he was rather terribly Scottish.

“Oh,” Clara managed after a moment of looking him up and down in disbelief. “Did I, um, just wake you?” she asked, taking in his wrinkled shirt that was only half tucked in and his suspenders that hung down by his thighs. He didn’t even have a jacket on, he was in shirttails and trousers and stockings. He looked for all intents and purposes a haggard madman.

“Wake me?” he frowned. “From what?”

Rather than answer his strange query, she turned back to the cabbie still holding Teddy. “Here’s the patient, his name is Teddy.”

The Doctor stood aside to allow the cabbie to enter with the young boy, and Clara followed hesitantly after. The doorway was so narrow she felt herself brush against the Doctor’s chest as she entered, and she shivered at the peculiarity of the man that seemed so magnified in closer proximity.

Her eyes swiveled about the narrow hall but long hall which seemed to go on forever. Paintings covered almost every wall in the corridor, even the ceiling. There were many rooms lining the hall, not all of them had doors but rather open doorways, and a cursory glance revealed books filled all of them in spiraling piles and shelves and stacks. She felt a thrill go through her at the sight, and became more comfortable just by their presence.  
The feeling was short-lived, as she started when the door shut behind her, and reminded her of the very strange man whose home she was currently occupying. With the closing of the door, the raucous cacophony of the London street was silenced immediately, and the they were cocooned in impossible stillness. “Through here,” the wild-looking man held an arm to gesture to a room off to the right. The cabbie carried Teddy within and she followed with the Doctor on her heels. The room had a desk in the center of it covered in parchment and papers and an open inkwell. On closer examination, several of the documents were still shiny with freshly drying ink—this was what he had been working on when they’d arrived. He approached the desk, picked up the oil lamp sitting atop it and held it aloft before he pushed everything off the surface of the desk onto the floor, sending paper and ink spilling everywhere. Before Clara could object, he gestured for the cabbie to place Teddy atop the desk, which he did. The young boy whimpered when his ankle touched the surface. In the strong light of the oil lamp, Clara could see the swelling.

The Doctor bent over the boy’s leg and set the oil lamp near him, close enough to illuminate the injury, but out of kicking distance in case the boy fell into a fit. With deft digits, he pulled thin wire-frame glasses from his pocket and slid them over his nose. His large eyebrows were pulled into a deep frown as he studied the ankle, and carefully, with long and slender fingers, he gently touched the swelling. Teddy convulsed violently, the Doctor immediately placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder to still him. The Doctor looked up at Clara over his large circular glasses that reflected the fire from the oil lamp in a way that made him appear owl-like. “Broken, I’m afraid.”

Clara bit her lip. “What can you do?”

“I’ll set it, but I want to keep an eye on him for a few hours, if you don’t mind. Because of his age, bones and growth are unreliable once set immediately following.” 

She nodded, then remembered the cabbie. A thrill went through her suddenly at the thought of dismissing the man, which would leave her alone with the Doctor for several hours, as she couldn’t leave Teddy alone. But there was no sense in having the driver stay. She turned to the man, “If you go back to the house, tell the maid what’s happened, and she can pay you for your travel and time. Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

The cabbie ducked his head in a bow, “My pleasure, m’lady.” 

Clara felt her face flush. She was far from a lady. Nevertheless, the kind man left, leaving herself and the Doctor alone with Teddy. She watched the man roll his ink stained shirtsleeves up to his elbows, revealing his lean, pale arms. “Light that, would you?” he nodded to the oil lamp hanging above the table. 

“I haven’t a match.” She confessed.

“Why haven’t you?” he asked, genuinely affronted.

“For what purpose would I need to carry matches about?”

“I think the present situation lends itself as example.”

“Have you got any lying about?”

“Never mind that,” he waved a hand in the air dismissively and balled up the end of his shirt and gripped the glass cone of the oil lamp on the table so as not to burn his fingers, and carefully lifted it off. He then moved the open flame to the hanging lamp until the fire caught, and the room grew even brighter. The silver in his hair seemed to shine gold, his pale eyes grew brighter. “I’ll need your help,” he said, replacing the glass on the oil lamp before setting it back on the table.

“My help?” 

“To hold him while I set the bone.”

She nodded and moved closer to the table. Her hand moved once more to stroke Teddy’s forehead and found it to be hot and clammy. “He’s feverish.”

“His body’s response to the pain. He’ll be fine. Pass me that bottle with the label that looks like a lamppost doing a waltz.”

Clara stared at him blankly. He wasn’t looking at her, his eyes on Teddy’s leg, his hand outstretched to Clara waiting impatiently. “Pardon?”

“The bottle with the dancing lamppost.”

Clara’s eyes roved around but found nothing that even resembled what he was asking for. “What?”

He looked at her as if she’d just informed him all the ducks in Britain were forming a union, his eyebrows appeared especially miffed. “Morphine, girl.”

Her eyes found on a shelf nearby a bottle with the name, and beneath it some sort of collection of lines that seemed to denote some scientific something or other. She took it and placed it in his hand. “Why didn’t you just say that.” She muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

The Doctor uncorked the bottle and opened a drawer of the desk, withdrawing a syringe. He dipped the needle in the bottle and withdrew a small amount of the liquid. He gave Teddy the injection in his arm, which prompted the boy to flinch, but within a span of several seconds, he seemed to relax and fall into a sort of deep sleep. Clara blinked in surprise. “If only I could have something like that when I put him to bed every night.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He scoffed, “This is a powerful sedative. Give a child enough of this and they’ll drop right off the plane of the living.” He must have noticed Clara’s eyes go wide and he quickly backtracked. “In small doses it’s perfectly alright,” he seemed to be trying to comfort her but his tone was awkward and rather the opposite of reassuring. “He’ll probably be fine.”

Clara stared at him. “Probably?”

“Will be.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“It’s what I meant.”

“Yes but you said ‘probably’.”

“Saying something and meaning another are entirely different things. I meant what I meant not what I said.”

“You ought to say what you mean and mean what you say.”

Removing his glasses, he placed another hand on his hip and looked at her incredulously. “Shall we continue to argue the logistics of speech and the machinations of the mind or am I allowed to proceed with my work?”

“His name is Teddy.”

“Does it matter?”

Clara cocked her head. “Well, no, I don’t suppose it does, I just thought—“

“Hold him down.” The Doctor commanded as his fingers moved to his ankle. “He may lurch in his sleep.”

Clara firmly held Teddy’s shoulders to the desk. She peered over her shoulder to see what the Doctor was doing. He gingerly first removed his shoe, then his stocking, and Clara saw how swollen it all was. She felt slightly woozy. The Doctor’s hands moved over the injury to further assess it. Finally, he firmly gripped Teddy’s foot and his leg just below his knee. Clara had to immediately look away as the Doctor suddenly yanked, and Teddy convulsed violently as his bones were reset. The loud crack sent a shiver up her spine, and she had to shut her eyes against the sudden wave of light-headedness she experienced. She remained still, holding Teddy’s shaking body, for a long while as the Doctor maneuvered about behind her. After a time, Teddy stilled, and returned to his relaxed and peaceful state.

The Doctor sighed behind her, and she turned to see him wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Teddy’s ankle was wrapped tightly in bandages and his leg was placed in a splint. “There,” he pronounced, “now to keep an eye on him for a bit.”

Clara released her hold on Teddy and stepped back. She looked at the Doctor, and despite her initial trepidations and judgements, he did appear to be a Doctor, after all. “Thank you.”

He looked at her bewildered for a moment, as though he’d forgotten she was there at all. He didn’t respond, he merely nodded briskly after several moments.

The Doctor carried the boy carefully to an adjoining room to lay him on a large chaise lounge for comfort, Clara sat beside him. The Doctor moved to a large wingback chair nearby and reclined into it. An open book sat splayed over one of the arms. 

The room seemed to be like the others they’d passed; books lined the walls and in several places were stacked high upon the floor. The room was dim, illuminated by several oil lamps he’d lit upon their entry, in addition to the dying coal fireplace against one wall. Strange curiosities filled the surfaces that literature did not. An old globe sat in one corner. A bust of a composer in another. Atop the mantle a violin was placed, as though practice of it were interrupted.

“How long must we wait?” she asked.

“No more than an hour or two,” the Doctor replied, placing his elbows on either armrest and lacing his fingers together in a spire. “I’d like to be certain the morphine wears off properly, and test the position of his leg when the swelling’s gone down.”

They sat quietly, Clara watching Teddy sleep and casting sideways glances at the peculiar man who mended him, in whose home she found herself alone in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the kind comments and kudos! They spur me forward.

The minutes ticked by from an ancient clock on the mantle, the clockwork pulses met with total silence from the two awkward companions. Clara couldn’t recall being alone in a room with a gentleman before in her life (an unconscious Teddy by her side didn’t count, she decided). She felt her cheeks flush from the situation, but sensed that her honor or person was put in no danger by the Doctor’s presence. Perhaps it was because he was a man of science, someone whose mind was dedicated to those higher pursuits of learning rather than the baser needs of humanity. Perhaps it was because she felt comfortable surrounded by books that he’d no doubt read, judging by their worn spines and wrinkled pages. Perhaps it was because she simply wasn’t afraid of him, despite his wild appearance and odd personage. But, after all, he was Scottish.

He cleared his throat carefully. “Do you, ah, live far?” he asked, his voice brittle and forced. The silence must have been just as uncomfortable for him.

She shook her head. “Only several blocks. I never knew there was a doctor so close by.”

He shifted in his large wingback chair uneasily. “And what is your occupation?” his voice again sounded forced, even his face betrayed his awkwardness in this conversation, asking questions that he could care less about because it was the proper thing to do. Clara hated small talk as much as he clearly did, but could see no way round it, as they were strangers.

“I take care of the children for an estate.”

“And do you enjoy it? The work, I mean.”

She shrugged and looked down at Teddy briefly. “When my charges aren’t running about breaking their legs it’s not so bad.” A slight smile flickered across the Doctor’s lips. “He has an older sister, Cecily. Two years apart. They’re a handful at times but they’re very sweet.”

“Too much sweetness will rot your teeth.”

Clara tried to hide the grin spreading across her face by looking down at Teddy. His tone was so matter-of-fact, as though he hadn’t heard that children weren’t actually candies and believed dispositions were as bad as cavities. “Have you any children, Doctor…? I apologize, I realize I don’t even know your name.”

“Just Doctor will do. And no, I do not.”

His sudden curtness took her off her guard momentarily. He must have sensed her confusion, for he added, “I know what you’re thinking. A man my age and no children. There must be something wrong with me—er, mentally, I mean, not, ah, physically. What I mean is my inability to procure a—a wife must appear as though I can’t procure a wife…which isn’t to say that that is true, but one needs a wife to have children the, ah proper and lawful way, the way I understand it—and now I’m making this terribly uncomfortable for you—and—and—oh hell.” He sunk back into the chair and ran a hand over his suddenly tired face.

Clara tried very hard to suppress the smile lighting up her face but failed rather terribly. A quarter of an hour ago he was snapping at her to hand him medical equipment as though she were his assistant and confidant, and now he was a bumbling fool who couldn’t control his own tongue, and quite embarrassed because of it, for it meant besmirching her chaste ears. “I’m not uncomfortable.” She assured him. “I understood what you meant. And I don’t think poorly of you for not having children. In fact I think no differently of you at all.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That is to say that you thought of me before?”

She felt her face go quite hot, now it was her turn to flummox about from his twisting words, “No—I only meant—that is to say, I only thought--”

He smiled coyly at her. “Merely a quip. Apologies. It’s been a long time and my humor is rough around the edges.”

“A long time?” she repeated, curiosity piqued. She couldn’t help but notice the cluttered and unkempt appearance of his home, it seemed to reflect him perfectly. Dust seemed settled on every surface, untidy piles of documents, and the general muddle of the home concluded in her mind that someone had lived here, and only here, for a very, very long time. 

“Ah…” he hesitated, once again shifting slightly as though he were sitting on a pile of jacks. “I don’t get out much.”

“Much?” she echoed slowly, watching his wincing face. “…Or at all?”

He shrugged one shoulder and nodded asymmetrically in weak agreement. He seemed to shrink further into the large chair which made him appear smaller; quite a feat, as he towered over her when standing. Clara’s mind spun. He was a doctor, that much was certain, for he mended Teddy’s leg. But she remembered the quasi-operating table he’d performed it on; merely a desk cluttered with papers and documents. She thought on his cautious and anti-social initial meeting, as if he were surprised and confused as to why anyone would come to him for help. His appearance, as well, was disheveled beyond excuse. She had thought he was merely in the middle of something, but what if he had been in that state for a long time? Months? Years? Was he still a practicing doctor? Was he truly a madman? Was she safe here?

“Now I’ve made you uncomfortable.” He perceived miserably. Clara started. She didn’t realize she hadn’t said anything for several beats. He must have read her face as the questions began to pile up behind her eyes. Sure enough, he was looking at her with questions lingering behind his own, casting his face in a pitiful mask.

“Not uncomfortable,” she replied slowly, “only curious.”

Her response seemed to quell his nerves slightly. “I know I must seem odd to you,” he paused, his eyes flicked up to look at her before returning to study his circling thumbs. “And you have every right to question me as to my merits or character. You are, after all, forced to stay here by no fault of your own for the next two hours. I don’t want you to feel afraid.”

He was timid, and his soul was kind, this much she felt. He was careful and cautious and nervous for the both of them. Clara felt her dread dissipate at this discovery. She waited until his eyes finally darted back up to look at her, and she held his gaze. “I’m not afraid.”

He nodded and crossed his legs. “Well then, what can I tell you to put you at ease,” he held up a finger as she began to protest, “Not being afraid and not being at ease are two entirely different ailments. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

She conceded he was right and thought for a moment. “Are you really a doctor?”

He paused to think before answering simply, “Yes.”

His response only stirred up more questions within her, but she felt compelled to choose the right ones. “How long have you been a doctor?”

“My entire adult life.”

She cocked her head. “And when was your last patient?”

He stared at her and blinked at her strange query. His eyes flashed as they reflected the glowing coals from the fire, and his answer was carefully spoken with a quiet voice, “He’s lying there beside you.”

Clara hesitated a moment, wanting to finally get the answer out of him he seemed so keen to avoid, “And before him?”

The Doctor held her gaze for several long seconds in silence. His eyes seemed to see right through her when he fixed them on her like that. Finally, he responded, his voice without emotion, “Twelve years ago.”

Clara felt her breath catch. Who was this man, who didn’t leave his house and claimed to be a livelihood he didn’t practice? Why had the cabbie brought her here, when London was full of doctors? Why had she been thrown in with the doctor who hadn’t practiced medicine in over a decade?

“Does that alarm you?” he asked bluntly.

Clara twisted up her lips in thought. “I don’t think so.” She answered, “I find it curious, but you fixed Teddy, so you’re not a stranger to medicine.”

A faint smile twitched on the corners of his lips. “You use that word again. Curious. Am I a curiosity to you to be studied and appraised?”

His voice carried a slightly mocking tone that she didn’t care for, so she fired back, “Yes, you are.”

Her honest rebuttal seemed to work. His eyes lost their hard edge and twinkled in the light as the slight smile grew on his lips. “Very well.” He replied softly. “It occurs to me I don’t even know your name, Miss…?”

“You didn’t care for Teddy’s name and you haven’t given me your own.”

He leaned forward in his chair, puckish smile still adorning his lips. “For a very good reason. You, however, have no such excuse.”

“And who are you to judge my excuses firm or flimsy?”

“I’m the Doctor. I judge, diagnose, and ascertain information.”

“But I am not your patient.” 

“If you were my patience you’d be running thin.”

“You should see a tailor and get that threadbare state of yours appraised.” She responded with her own wry smile. This game of theirs was tickling something within her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d swapped witticisms with someone like this. Perhaps never, as it wasn’t proper for her to do so, but here, secluded from the rest of the world, she felt the walls erected by society saying what she could or couldn’t do crumble down around them. He seemed to feel it, too, for, despite his words, his attitude was, dare she say (with those eyebrows, especially), jovial. Or perhaps he was merely enjoying this game of wit as much as she.

He opened his mouth to respond, but Teddy whimpered slightly. In the span of a blink, the Doctor had traversed the room and was kneeling by his side, back of his hand on the boy’s forehead, the other hand holding his wrist for a pulse with deft fingers. Clara couldn’t stop her sudden intake of breath at the man’s sudden close proximity; she could feel him brush the hem of her dress and could count the ink spots on his fingertips. He was still, feeling Teddy’s vitals, his face frowning with concentration, his impressive brow knit. After a minute, he sighed and released Teddy, sitting back on his heels. “Nothing to fear.” He pronounced. “No fever, pulse normal. I do believe the morphine is doing its job all too well.”

“Too well?” she repeated, her mind quickly becoming a bramble of catastrophic thinking. He seemed to notice this immediately, for he relaxed his harsh face and peered up at her kindly.

“I only meant he’s still in a deep sleep, which is grand; it means he won’t be moving about and undoing all that I’ve done. He’s merely dreaming.” The Doctor cast his eyes upon the young boy, and Clara wondered if she imagined the shadow that crossed the man’s face reflecting something akin to sadness. It was gone in an instant. The Doctor placed his hands on his knees and stood. “Can I get you something? Do you take tea?”

“Am I English?” she meant it as a sarcastic joke, but he stared at her, hesitating and doubtful. “Yes, please. Tea. Thanks.” She repaired awkwardly. The Doctor nodded and left the room, surely traipsing through the rather impossibly large house and through the multitude of rooms towards the kitchen himself. Had he not a maid? She scolded herself immediately for thinking such a silly thing when, having seen the state of utter disrepair of his living condition, it was very obvious that no cleaning had been done here in years. 

The thought triggered something in her and she sent a cursory glance to the doorway before rising from the chaise lounge and looking about the room. He was strange, but he was kind. He had helped Teddy and was now stuck with entertaining her for the duration of the boy’s morphine stupor. She had no money to pay him, she would have him send the bill to the estate, but perhaps she could do something for him now. Her eyes scanned the many surfaces of the room and lighted on the dusty mantle. It wasn’t at all appropriate to go into someone’s home and clean it for them while they fetched one tea. But what part of any of this situation had been appropriate?

She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve. It wasn’t a fancy lace one like the well-to-do ladies had, it was a simple cloth and was easily replaceable. One look at the layers of caked dust atop the mantle told her she wouldn’t be using her handkerchief after this. 

Clara gingerly took down the abandoned violin from its perch and set it on a nearby pile of books. She then removed the old clock (surprisingly heavy for its size), a small framed map painting leaning against the wall, and several small curiosities and set them beside the violin. The mantle clear, she swept her handkerchief across it and a plume of dust rose into the air. She stifled a cough by raising her free hand to her mouth and covering her nose from the cloud. She ran the cloth over the surface until all the dust was gone, and hoped the dust would disperse from the air before he came back with the tea. She set everything back atop the mantle after giving each a thorough cleaning, just as she heard the Doctor down the hall returning. She panicked suddenly—she hadn’t exactly thought this through. Should she remain where she was, dusty rag in hand, standing before her work? Or retreat back to her chaise lounge hoping he wouldn’t notice her handiwork? She chose the middle ground and threw the filthy handkerchief into the fire before her, where it scorched and caught, and remained where she was before the hearth.

He entered with an old silver tray carrying a small teapot and two cups and saucers. In addition, he had a bowl of fruit, a plate of cold sausages, and a pile of buttered bread. He had to double take when he didn’t see her sitting on the chaise lounge, but found her before the fire. “It’s drafty, I apologize.”

“Oh, no, I was just,” she started and panicked, eyes darting to the painting of the map she’d dusted. “Looking.”

He moved towards her and placed the tray on a pile of books that seemed to serve as an end table of sorts next to the wing back chair. He pulled up a footstool, so the stack was between the stool and the chair. He gestured for her to sit in the large wing back, indicating that he would take the footstool.

“Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself, please,” she said quickly, “I can sit where I was,”

“Don’t be silly, the meal is here, and there are two perfectly fine chairs.”

She knew better than to broach an argument for fear of appearing rude, so she resigned herself to his wing back chair, gingerly sitting on the edge. Once she’d seated herself, he lowered himself to the footstool that was barely a foot above the ground. He looked absolutely ridiculous, his long legs bent terribly, but he didn’t seem to mind, as he poured them both a cup of tea. “I didn’t know if you were hungry or not,” he said, accounting for the veritable feast he’d brought with him.

“Thank you, that was very kind.” She smiled, taking the cup he offered her. “Do you have food delivered?”

He nodded. “A boy comes from the market every week with what I want. He’s paid too well, the little bandit, but I can’t find anyone else who would….” He trailed off, not wanting to finish whatever he was about to say. He picked up a saucer of cream instead. “Milk?”

“Yes, please.” She held out her cup for him, into which he poured the perfect amount. She smiled when he didn’t offer sugar, remembering his comment about sweetness and tooth rot. 

This close, facing him, his personage illuminated by the fireplace, she got to really look at him. Large pale eyes that she could swear were grey one moment, then blue the next were above heavy dark circles that denoted a severe lack of sleep. His head was a rumpled mess of silver curls peppered with black, and she idly wondered if his hair had the ability to be tamed at all. His face was drawn and haggard, the shadow of a beard graced the lower half, while the upper half seemed to be in a constant state of unhappiness. His large grey eyebrows looked perpetually furious over something, but the rest of his face betrayed his kindness despite them. He looked older, perhaps a man of 50 or more, but she couldn’t be sure. She noticed he had an ink smudge on his jaw, probably from resting his chin on his hand at some point during the day. He was pale and slender and lanky to boot, but she recalled the lean muscles of his forearms when he’d rolled up his sleeves to assist Teddy.

She was jolted out of her study of him when he handed her a plate piled with bread and sausages and fruit, which she quickly thanked him for and took.

The two of them sat quietly for a short time, eating and sipping their tea, until finally she said, “Clara.”

He looked up at her questioningly.

“You asked my name. It’s Clara. Well, Clarissa, really, but…” now it was her turn to trail off. How could she explain introducing herself by her informal nickname she only let her close friends and family call her? A slip of her tongue, and yet she didn’t feel the need to correct herself.

“Clara,” he repeated slowly, as though he were tasting the word. “You know the meaning of the name?”

“From the Latin, clarus, meaning clear.”

“Or illuminating,” he added professorially, “Rose in popularity in the twelfth century, unless I’m mistaken.”

She shook her head in the affirmative, “No, you’re correct. How did you know that? The man without a moniker and who doesn’t care for his patients’ names?”

He shrugged. “I never said I didn’t care, only that it didn’t matter. Names interest me. I find their origins to either speak volumes towards one’s character, or stand as ironic testaments to poor parenting decisions.”

“And what’s yours, then? I’ve told you mine, it’s only fair.” She chided, taking a sip of tea.

He sat quietly for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was small, “If you don’t mind terribly, I think, for now, it would be best if you simply referred to me as Doctor. I don’t ask it as a courtesy to you, but as a courtesy to me, if you’d oblige me.”

Clara pondered his intent to keep his name a secret from her, but couldn’t insist on it without appearing rude or indecorous. She decided it wasn’t important, after all. Whatever his reasons, they didn’t in any way retract from his character, only added further material to fire her curiosity. She agreed to his request, and changed the subject.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara part, and a newcomer arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gosh you guys are so kind! Here's another chapter, hope you enjoy! Comments are very much appreciated, they make me write faster :)

The two shared talks over food and tea for the next hour. Their conversations drifted from small talk to subjects of meaning. Literature was a chief topic of discussion, and Clara enjoyed watching his eyes light up when he spoke with unbridled passion of his favorite authors ranging from Maupassant to Byron and Pope. He nodded knowingly when she spoke of her favorites which were familiar to him, and crinkled his brow in firm interest when she mentioned a title unknown to him. From literature their topic deviated to music, and his pursuit of playing the violin arose, although he made it clear with all humility he merely dabbled and could scarcely consider himself playing the instrument so much as poncing about with it.

When the clock on the mantle chimed out the evening hour of eight, it startled them both, having lost track of the time entirely. He removed himself from the conversation and went to Teddy’s side to examine the boy. Clara watched the Doctor bend over her charge and check his pulse once more. After a minute, satisfied, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently shook him. Teddy responded with a weary groan he often made whenever Clara tried to wake him in the mornings. She smiled to herself, knowing the danger had passed and the morphine had worn off.

“He’s tired,” the man smiled. “But perfectly alright. I’m afraid I require your assistance once more; I want another look at his ankle.”

Clara rose and went to his side. “Shall I hold him again?”

“As still as you can. I believe the morphine is still dulling the pain, so that may be a great help.”

She knelt beside Teddy and placed her hands gently on his shoulders to keep him still as the Doctor lowered himself to kneel beside her to have access to the boy’s lower half. He undertook the slow and careful job of unwrapping Teddy’s shin and ankle and removing the splint he’d placed. She couldn’t help but watch his long fingers effortlessly go about their task in a hypnotic rhythm, his elbow occasionally brushing her arm as he moved. The bandages removed, she was amazed to see the once swelled ankle had diminished to an almost normal size, and the redness had all but disappeared. “That’s incredible,” she whispered.

“Don’t be daft,” he chided modestly, and she noted the flush of color in his cheek at her compliment. “The ankle is set properly,” he continued as his hands went about the task of re-wrapping it all, “but will need to remain so for at least a fortnight. He mustn’t put pressure on it, but should be toted about in a transport chair for at least the next two weeks, then crutches for the next two, and a cane when you think he’s able. He’s young, and his bones will heal swiftly, but mind me and don’t let him exert himself too soon.”

She nodded. “He’ll hate that, he’s got more energy in him than ten full grown men.”

“I’ve found taking the young ones out for frequent walks when they’re in the transport chair helps alleviate their feelings of limited movement and can help calm their nerves. It’s the crutches you have to worry about, and the cane. Young boys always seem to find better things to do with them rather than use them properly. Keep his sister clear of him, especially, lest she wants a good thwacking.”

Clara laughed at the accuracy of his warning when ascribed to Teddy’s personality. He no doubt would become the tyrant of the estate as he recovered. The Doctor went to fetch a transport chair for Teddy and left Clara with the rather arduous task of waking the young boy. After much shaking and coercing, the boy finally opened his eyes and let out a ferocious yawn. He looked about with slowly blinking eyes, clearly uninterested and unimpressed by his strange surroundings, as though he woke up there every day. 

“I’m hungry, Clara.”

“I bet you are,” she smiled, relief flooding her at hearing his voice, calm and ordinary, after several hours of anxiety. “Come on, let’s get you home. The Doctor is bringing you a wheelchair to ride around in, isn’t that thrilling?”

The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Like Mrs. Edmonston has? Really?”

“Even better.” She helped him rise slowly from his prostrate position and eased his legs over the side of the chaise lounge so they dangled over the floor. “You’re not to put any pressure on that ankle of yours, lest you undo all of the Doctor’s hard work, understood?”

Teddy nodded solemnly. She turned when she heard the Doctor return and saw him pushing an elegant wicker wheelchair that looked to be for children of Teddy’s size. It had a cushion on the back and bottom, and was winged in round the sides like the Doctor’s chair. “Your cabriolet, young sir.” The Doctor announced as he moved it closer to Teddy, whose face had lit up with glee. Between Clara and the Doctor, Teddy was placed gently into the chair, which only seemed to delight him further. His big eyes looked up at Clara as his hands stroked the wicker arms excitedly.

“Can you push me, Miss Clara? Can you?”

The Doctor nodded at her and gestured for her to take the proverbial wheel. Clara moved behind the chair and took the handles, and found the chair moved with surprising ease. She turned the chair about so it faced the door, and the spin caused Teddy to nearly faint with joy. “I took the liberty of hailing a cab for you when I went to fetch the chair,” the Doctor said hesitantly, bringing Clara back from her fit of laughter with Teddy. She looked at the Doctor and her laughter melted away. 

“Oh,” she tried to make her tone sound grateful and dignified despite her confusing rush of feelings that contradicted her departure, “thank you very much.”

She didn’t move to go for he hadn’t moved to leave either, and the two stood still for a span of several seconds. He lightly scratched his temple with a fingertip. “It’s waiting, out front.”

Was she imagining the reluctance in his voice? “Well we’d better be off then, shouldn’t we, Teddy?” the boy shifted ecstatically in his chair in response. Clara looked back to the Doctor. “I apologize, I can’t pay you now, but please send your bill to the Gregsons on Bircham Road,” she added lowly in a conspiratorial so Teddy couldn’t hear, “and between you and I, they have money to spare so by all means charge whatever you like.”

The Doctor’s face flushed and he dropped his eyes to his feet. “Away with you,” he kidded with a smile which she returned with a wink.

He led her down the hall and opened the front door so he could help remove Teddy and his new favorite mode of transportation from the house and down the steps. He took the bottom half and lifted it while Clara eased the back wheels down each step carefully. When they’d reached the footpath, she turned back around to cast one last glance to his home for reasons she couldn’t put into words. It appeared so much smaller on the outside, nestled between the two large homes on either side of the street. When she turned back to look at the Doctor, she felt a loss for words somehow. “Thank you,” she managed.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and averted his gaze.

“I mean it,” she said. “Thank you very much for your time, your service, and your care.”

His eyes flicked back to meet hers and held her gaze for a long moment, studying her face with some weighty meaning behind his eyes that she knew not. His head bobbed in a nod barely perceptible before moving to the waiting cab and speaking with the driver. He returned with the dismounted cabbie and the two men helped load Teddy into the carriage, wheelchair and all. When the task had been completed, the Doctor turned to offer his hand to help her own ascension into the vehicle, which she took without hesitation. When she’d entered, their hands drew away from one another like soft ripples, and she felt some strange emptiness within her. “It was a pleasure, Lady Clara.” The Doctor bowed stiffly. The artifice of the outside world had resumed, it would seem, and despite his self-inflicted hermit lifestyle, he, too, seemed to be a yielding victim to the whims and structures of society beyond his own walls. She felt him at that moment to be a stranger. Their impassioned talks and intimate swapping of wit just an hour ago seemed unreal and imagined. He shut the door of the cab with a snap and waved the driver on. The carriage jolted forward as the horses began their journey, and she watched the man who called himself the Doctor disappear through the window.

When Clara and her young charge returned to the Gregson estate, the maid came rushing up to meet them. Clara explained what had transpired in the span of the past three hours, and requested help in retiring Teddy to bed, his room being on the second floor. Quickly discovering that the task was a foolish one, Clara resigned Teddy instead to the study in the left wing that was seldom used and had a comfortable plush couch. She brought him a down pillow and quilt to curl up with, and pulled up a chair beside him to wait until he’d fallen asleep, which took some doing, as he was still excited from the day’s adventures. After a time, he drifted off, and Clara’s own exhausted mind wrapped her up in a deep sleep of her own.

 

Morning came on softly at first, then crashed into her like a wave. Clara sat upright and saw Teddy still asleep as sunlight dappled his hair. She blinked in the light and thought about the events that had led to her and Teddy sleeping in the study. Her jumbled mind tried to make sense of the tangle that was her fresh dreams and yesterday’s occurrences. The latter’s strangeness made it all the more difficult to understand in her newly woken state.

The location of Mr. and Mrs. Gregson seemed of the utmost importance, as she hadn’t heard them come home last night and couldn’t explain to them Teddy’s injury. The clock noted ten, their normal breakfasting hour, so she rose and set out to find them in the breakfast parlour. As she moved through the wide halls of the lavish estate, she was somehow reminded laterally of the Doctor’s own cozy home packed with books and artwork he fancied rather than the repetitive landscapes framed in gold that hung every so often on the walls of the Gregson estate that served no purpose other than to fill empty spaces rather than to delight the soul.

The door to the breakfast parlour was open, and the light clinking of silverware told her of the Gregson’s presence. She entered quietly and paused just within. Her eyes couldn’t help but glance over the large and sparse room; a wide table sat in the center and Mr. and Mrs. Gregson sat at either end with an almost comical display of distance between them. An elegant buffet table sat against the far wall with a wide assortment of hot food in covered dishes being warmed with candles, and the butler stood beside it ready to attend. Clara thought about the close quarters she shared with the Doctor last night in a snug room as they ate their meager meal over a pile of books, no less, sharing laughter and enthusiasm. She suddenly felt hollow and small in the large cool room of the estate.

Bonnie Gregson looked up from her breakfast. “Is anything the matter, Clarissa?”

“I’m afraid there was, but its right as rain now.” She began, and regaled them with the tale of Teddy’s broken ankle. To her surprise, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Gregson seemed all that terribly worried by the injury their only son sustained. Mr. Gregson barely reacted, only stared at her over a turned down corner of the newspaper he was reading, “He’ll be confined to a wheelchair for the next few weeks, so I might suggest boarding him down here for the time being, as I did last night in the east wing study.” 

“That’s a fine suggestion, don’t you agree, dear?” Bonnie asked Theodore. Mr. Gregson harrumphed.

“I don’t like the idea of him being so exposed.” The gentleman stated, folding the paper in half with a flick, “There’s been another robbery only two blocks from us just last night. What the devil Scotland Yard is doing rather than catching this criminal is beyond me.”

Mrs. Gregson frowned but her tone betrayed her interest in the latest gossip. “Oh dear, who was it this time?”

“The Mandlebaums.”

“Not Gertrude and Peter!”

“The same.”

“Heavens!” Mrs. Gregson sank back into her chair. “That’s the third this month. Theodore, we must do something.”

“We’ll keep young Teddy on the second floor.”

“That won’t stop a burglary. And how do you propose getting him up all those steps in a wheelchair?”

Mr. Gregson harrumphed again and tugged on his mustache.

“If you don’t mind,” Clara offered cautiously, “I could stay with him at night down here and keep an eye on him.”

“No, no, that won’t do.” Mr. Gregson dismissively waved away her offer. “I’ve an idea. Renfield,” he turned to address the butler, “Fetch my coat and hat, I’m going out.”

Renfield bowed and slunk from the room.

“And are we to be privy to this genius of yours?” Mrs. Gregson asked dryly. “Or are we to be surprised?”

He rose from the table and dropped his napkin upon it with a note of finality. “The latter, dear. Never say I don’t keep you on your toes.” 

Mr. Gregson left for the morning and left Mrs. Gregson to share the evening’s gossip from the party she’d attended with Clara. Bonnie enjoyed Clara’s company, and often spent many a night talking and swapping rumors with her. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—Bonnie spoke the rumors and Clara merely listened. She was like an aunt to Clara, and always treated her more kindly than anyone in Clara’s station could expect.  
Almost an hour had passed before Mrs. Gregson concluded her tale of the evening and asked about the events that transpired the night before with Teddy. Clara had just begun to disclose what little she knew of the Doctor (deciding she preferred to keep the more peculiar elements of his character to herself lest she alarm Mrs. Gregson’s delicacy), when Cecily entered the parlour gleefully and required all of Bonnie’s attention. Clara slipped away with two plates of breakfast and retreated to Teddy’s makeshift room to find him just beginning to wake.

The two ate quietly for a time, until Teddy asked round a mouthful of toast, “Am I to see that man again?”

“Which man?” Clara asked, though she knew of whom he was speaking.

“The man who fixed me.”

“You mean the Doctor.” She clarified. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” The words fell from her mouth like stones, and she focused her attention on cutting a sausage.

“Why don’t you know?”

Persistent little fellow. “Because you won’t need to see him. Your mother reminded me you have a family doctor who makes house calls. In a few weeks, they’ll probably send for him to check that your ankle’s healed.”

Teddy was silent for a time, and the weight of Clara’s own words hung heavy around her. She couldn’t explain why the thought of not seeing the strange Doctor again made her feel so put out, other than she’d liked their talks.

“I wish they wouldn’t.” the boy grumped. “I liked him.”

“You hardly know him.”

“You liked him, didn’t you?”

Clara blinked. “You’re the curious sort this morning, aren’t you?”

He grinned and shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth.

The two of them spent the morning with Cecily out of doors whizzing about in the wheelchair. The sky began to darken in the early afternoon and they were forced inside by pelting droplets of freezing rain. Dashing indoors, their clothes had gotten soaked despite their speed in the sudden downpour. As they entered through the back of the entrance hall, two gentleman entered through the front door. Their voices carried, and Clara looked up, recognizing one to be that of Mr. Gregson, but the other was unknown to her.

“Clarissa!” Gregson boomed down the hall jovially and beckoned her and the children forth. Clara pushed Teddy towards them and Cecily trailed along beside her timidly, the three leaving puddles in their wake. The closer they neared, Clara could make out the other gentleman standing with Mr. Gregson. He wore a bright red jacket decorated with buttons and trim, and had a scabbard at his side. High black boots and black pants, in addition to a black hat beneath one arm and a black belt across his middle completed the structured look. His skin was bronzed and his eyes large and dark, his features chiseled and masculine.

“I want you three to meet Lieutenant Daniel Pink, of the castle regiment.” Mr. Gregson continued, and the soldier clicked his heels and bent at the waist in a stiff bow. Cecily hid behind Clara’s skirts, and Teddy watched the man in wide-eyed wonder. Gregson clapped Pink on the back cheerfully. “He’ll be here guarding the estate to keep us all safe.”

“Safe from what?” Teddy asked. Mr. Gregson chuckled and looked at Lieutenant Pink, and nodded for him to respond to the young boy’s query.

The Lieutenant turned to face Teddy and a smirk pulled up one corner of his lips. “From the bad men.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your extraordinarily kind words in the comments! It helps me write, knowing that I'm not just doing it for myself and the work is being well received by you all. Hope you enjoy this installment! I did warn this was a slow-burner, so apologies for not beating you all over the head with the plot just yet, as I'm trying to establish the characters and world a bit first, as it's crucial down the line. The plot is starting to simmer, and will boil over in another few chapters...brace yourselves :)

Clara stood in the entrance hall, her wet dress dripping onto the marble floor, damp hair that the rain had dislodged plastered to her forehead, and she felt like a fool. Here was a solider, a man of rank and dignity and a new guest to the estate, meeting this woe begotten soaking gaggle of children (one of which was now confined to a wheelchair which spoke volumes towards her care of their personal safety, she thought ruefully), not to mention her own soggy appearance. She felt incredibly embarrassed to be meeting a gentleman in this state, so she did everything in her power to avoid eye contact with the Lieutenant. 

Mr. Gregson didn’t seem to care about the state of his children or herself and carried on with the introductions, “The lad in the wheelchair is young Theodore; he had a bit of a mishap yesterday and broke his leg. Boys will be boys, always jumping about and taking risks, you know how it is. It’s a miracle he’s survived to the ripe old age of five!”

Lieutenant Pink saluted Teddy with all the pomp of a soldier hailing royalty. “Injured in the line of duty; a noble endeavor.” Teddy laughed and clapped his hands excitedly.

Mr. Gregson beamed and continued, “And this is darling Cecily, come out from behind Clarissa, don’t be shy now, there you are. She’s a timid thing around new persons, she certainly doesn’t take after her mother. Isn’t she just the prettiest little thing?”

Cecily had edged begrudgingly out from behind Clara’s skirts but blushed and quickly hid behind them again, peering out cautiously. Lieutenant Pink bowed deeply towards the small girl. “Quite so. And if you’d oblige me, I may go so far as to say she is impossibly pretty. Her coming out will no doubt set the suitors of London wild.” He smiled, and Cecily flushed and hid her own smile behind Clara’s dress.

“Indeed. And this young maid is our children’s caretaker, Miss Clarissa Oswald. She boards with us.”

Clara’s eyes went wide when the Lieutenant approached her, took her hand firmly in his own and placed a kiss on the back of it. When he straightened, he met her eyes with warmth, a smile lingering on his lips. “A pleasure, Miss Oswald.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded, and after an awkward moment, removed her hand from his own. Gentlemen kissing her hands as though she were a lady of rank was not something she was used to, nor comfortable with, and she wasn’t sure how to react, exactly. He seemed to notice this, but strangely, his smile only grew in response; a private, knowing smile reserved for only her, for when he turned back to Mr. Gregson it had vanished entirely. What had that been about?

“Now you must come meet the wife.” Gregson continued, clapping a hand on Lieutenant Pink’s back and leading him away to the parlour. “She can be a handful, but she’s harmless. Most of the time.”

Clara turned to watch them go, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise when the soldier turned back to look at her just before he entered the parlour, that same secret smile on his lips, before vanishing within the room. She didn’t notice she had been rubbing the back of her hand where he’d kissed against the side of her dress, the sensation of his lips on her skin lingering strangely like pinpricks. Teddy peered round the side of his chair at her, eyes flashing with awe. “A solider! A real soldier here, in the house! Working for us! Do you think he’ll let me play with his sword?”

“Blades aren’t toys, Teddy.” She scolded politely. “Now come on, let’s get you two dried off.”

The rest of the afternoon consisted of giving each child a hot bath and redressed. Clara, too, found the time for a bath of her own as the children played indoors. She fixed her hair and rejoiced in wearing dry clothes once more. Upon descending the stairs to find Teddy and Cecily, she heard giggling and a masculine voice coming from the library. She went towards it and found the Lieutenant entertaining the two children, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Gregson; even the housemaid and butler were being entertained. Just then, he was demonstrating sword routines of some kind, to the exceeding delight of Teddy and Mr. Gregson in particular. She couldn’t help but notice the sharpness of the sword he wielded as he moved through the routines, describing each one’s purpose and title as he did so. Bonnie noticed Clara standing in the doorway and waved her in.

Just then, she heard a knock on the front door, and the butler, so engrossed in the jovial entertainment of the library, didn’t hear it. She waited a moment, hoping Renfield would go and assist whomever was at the door, but he didn’t move, completely oblivious. She went herself, hoping whatever guest waited just beyond wouldn’t question the propriety of the Gregsons when a maid answered the door.

Much to her surprise, and dare she say delight, when she opened the door, she found the Doctor standing there, dressed and all. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t look as haphazardly attired as he had upon her first meeting with him, and even wore a black jacket that appeared only slightly dusty, and black trousers to match. His white shirt was buttoned up to his neck, and his tie looked awkwardly off-center, as though he had forgotten how to tie it. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but his hair appeared slightly tamer, and the shadow of whiskers around his face was gone. All in all he looked rather scrubbed up. “Doctor!” she exclaimed with a bright smile, which faltered as realization dawned. “You’ve left your house, is everything alright? What’s happened?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Hermit crabs move about, don’t they?”

“Yes but they stay in their shells. Hence the term ‘hermit’.”

“Who says I’ve left my shell? A shell can be many different things to different people, er, crabs.”

“This is becoming a very interesting analysis on the psyche of the human mind in relation to that of the crustacean.”

He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Apologies. Didn’t intend to start a debate on your doorstep. The purpose for my visit was you, Clara,” she felt her cheeks flush oddly at his words, but he continued unaware, pulling something he’d been shielding behind his back. “Your shawl, I’m afraid you left it after you’d departed.”

She smiled coyly, “Are you sure it’s mine?” he made a comical long-suffering face at her chiding, for they both knew it could belong to no one else. She took her shawl gratefully. “Thank you very much. I’d forgotten entirely with everything that had happened yesterday. You came all this way to return it?”

“It was no trouble. I was in need of fresh air.”

“Doctor,” Clara said, “it’s raining.”

“You’re very observant.”

“You walked all the way here, twelve blocks, in the rain, for this trifle?”

“I had an umbrella.” As if to prove its existence he waved it about, and Clara was reminded of Lieutenant Pink going through his sword routines in the next room. She hugged her arms to her chest.

“That was very kind of you, Doctor.”

“And how’s the young invalid doing?” he asked, deflecting her thanks as though they were volleys from an enemy attack.

“Grand,” she beamed. “He loves his chair, it’s starting to tire me out, pushing him around all the time. Even Cecily enjoys it.”

He smiled slightly. “Glad to hear it.” he cast his eyes up to the estate. “And you work here?”

“Yes. It’s probably rather large by your standards.”

“I was going to say it was positively verbose but I thought it might be rude to do so.”

“So you said it anyway.”

“It would appear I have done.”

She would have smiled had she not already been smiling. “Can I—may I invite you in for tea, Doctor?”

“I don’t want to push in,” he immediately declined, and Clara felt a sudden desperation fill her when it appeared he was preparing to leave at her words. She had just opened her mouth to insist it was no trouble at all, it was the least she could do to repay his own kindness, when Bonnie’s shrill voice sounded behind her.

“Who is this, Clarissa?” Mrs. Gregon asked conspiratorially as she approached them, her skirts taking up most of the doorway. Clara perceived mild panic behind the Doctor’s eyes at the intrusion.

“Mrs. Gregson, this is the Doctor,” Clara introduced, and something in her despised herself for saying so. As though the Doctor was her secret, and introducing him removed some of that mystery. 

Bonnie held out her hand expectantly, The Doctor froze momentarily, then moved to take her hand with his hand holding the umbrella. Realizing he would have to relinquish the umbrella, he shuffled it to his other hand and took hers with his now umbrella-less hand and mechanically leaned down to brush his lips against it. He let her hand go as soon as he could and Clara noticed how uncomfortable he looked because of it all. Bonnie, as usual, seemed not to notice his unease. “The Doctor! You must be the one who mended Teddy! How wonderful to meet you.”

He attempted a smile but it looked more like a grimace. “Yes.” He said, and cleared his throat.

“The Gregsons are indebted to you, really. We have a family doctor, you see, but Clarissa being so new here didn’t know about him. You taking on Teddy on such short notice was extraordinarily kind of you and we thank you most sincerely. And—I’m afraid I missed your name, Doctor…?”

Clara jumped in quickly as she saw the Doctor grow impossibly more uncomfortable. “Yes, and he lives so close, only a few blocks north-east of us. He just walked the distance himself today to return my shawl to me, in all the commotion I had left it at his house—er, office, yesterday

Bonnie’s face lit up once more. “How kind! And in the rain, no less!”

“I had an umbrella,” he objected, waving it once more to demonstrate its presence. Clara bit the inside of her cheek to stop a giggle. He seemed so intent on proving that walking all the way there in the torrential downpour was nothing to fuss over. “I also wanted to inquire as to how the patient was faring; Clarissa,” he paused and his eyes flashed to Clara almost imperceptibly for a moment, and she couldn’t read the slight expression on his face as a result of using her proper name, “was just informing me as to Teddy’s condition.”

“Do come in, won’t you? We must settle our account with you for Teddy’s leg, and you could stay for dinner.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I have business to attend to.”

“Certainly not at this hour? It’s almost evening.”

“This very moment, in fact.”

“Well I suppose that’s how it always is with you doctor types. Running about saving people around the clock. Do be sure you hurry to your destination, as of late even these streets aren’t safe from felons and ne'er do wells.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’m unsure as to what you are referring.”

“The robberies! Surely you’ve read about them in the newspapers? Villains are striking families of merit and stealing their valuables. It’s horrible, simply horrible.” Her tone didn’t sound as though it were horrible; Clara thought she sounded delighted. Bonnie added proudly, “We’ve taken it upon ourselves to hire a soldier to protect us, in fact, to put our minds at ease.”

He produced that smiling grimace once more, but Clara saw darkness in his eyes. She noticed his hands were trembling.

“Quite. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gregson. And it was lovely to see you again, Miss Clarissa.” He bowed his head slightly, holding Clara’s gaze as he did so. “And, if I may, do not hesitate to call on me if Teddy needs anything in the future regarding his injury, as I would be most obliged to continue assisting him. I understand the family doctor would be preferred, and will take no offence if my services are no longer required.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor.” Clara smiled warmly. “You are extraordinarily kind.”

A shadow passed across his face and his tone took on a curt edge. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. Good day to you.” In one swift motion, he opened his umbrella with a flick and set out into the rain.

“What a strange fellow.” Bonnie murmured as they watched him recede. Clara straightened.

“Strange?” she tried to keep the defensive tone out of her voice.

“Coming all this way and not staying.” Mrs. Gregson sighed. “I’m sure Teddy would have liked to see him again, he’s talked of no one else. Well, besides Lieutenant Pink, that is.”

Clara shut the door from the chill and rain and turned to meet Bonnie’s sly smile directed at her. “He’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he?”

Clara felt her face go red hot and her voice was a squeak. “I—I don’t, I mean, that is to say, I think he’s, rather—”

Bonnie patted her arm. “No need to tell me, dear, I see it in your coloring. There’s something about a man in uniform—I was just like that when I was your age.”

Uniform?...Oh, no. Realization passed through her veins like ice. It was obvious in hindsight to whom she had been referring, why, then, had the Doctor come so readily to mind? Rather than continue to let Bonnie entertain this fancy of matchmaking, as she was so wont to do, she tried to shift the topic of conversation from herself, “Don’t let Mr. Gregson here you talk like that, he’ll get jealous.”

Bonnie tittered. “He was jealous, the silly fool.” She took Clara’s arm and started walking her towards the library. “I was being courted by a Captain before Theodore was introduced to me. There was a terrible discourse that arose between the two that led to a terrific fight between them, over me! I couldn’t believe it. Well, you were barely a glimmer in your father’s eye when I was that age, so you never knew how I looked in my youth, so perhaps it was believable to have two such men fighting over me in that way…” 

They’d arrived back to the library where the Lieutenant had finished showing off and was letting Teddy play with his sword. Clara pulled out of Bonnie’s grasp and started towards them. “Teddy, put that down! You’ll hurt yourself!”

The Lieutenant looked up at her entrance, “He’s perfectly fine, Miss. He’s a natural.”

“Clarissa, don’t worry,” Mr. Gregson chortled behind her. “Teddy’s never been in surer hands.”

Clara bit her tongue and felt her cheeks burning once more. His words were harmless and he meant nothing by them, she knew, but the implication hurt. She stared at Teddy sitting in his wheelchair, his ankle bandaged and splinted, and, despite the injury having come about from Teddy’s own rambunctious behavior, she felt entirely responsible for his condition. 

“You missed the Lieutenant’s display of swordsmanship,” Bonnie smiled. “Perhaps he should show you how gifted he is with it to put you at ease?”

Rather than responding to either gentleman or lady, as her emotions started to rise up in her she turned on her heel and stalked from the library and up to her room. Certainly, the gesture had been rude and childish, but it was that or continue standing in that room as hot tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

Closing the door to her bedroom with more force than necessary, she looked down at her hands shaking with anger. Why was she feeling so upset? Ire surged through her veins, yet her head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton and melancholy that she could not place the source of. It would be foolish to deny the blatant innuendo Bonnie had snuck in, and Clara feared this would just be the start of many attempts at throwing the two of them together, whether Clara liked it or not. Mr. Gregson’s comment was still playing in her head, and she couldn’t help but feel all the worse for Teddy’s predicament. Then the Lieutenant’s words, tossing aside her concern as though it were a trifle as he put Teddy in danger. She was their carer, didn’t she have the authority over others to keep them safe? Shouldn’t her opinions and orders be heard? Not after what happened, a voice in her head whispered, not after you let Teddy break his ankle while you stood by and watched him play.

She moved to her window as the tears began to fall, reflecting themselves in the crying windowpane as the rain pattered against it. The lamps were being lit as the sun set, and her eyes strained through the gloom. The streets of London were spread below her second-story window, and she could see for half a mile through the rain and dusk. For what her eyes were straining for, she wasn’t certain, until finally she discerned a very distant figure in black, umbrella hoisted above his head, moving north-eastward through the streets. She watched the Doctor continue up the block growing smaller with every step, and her emotions quelled faintly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alas, the Doctor doesn't appear physically this chapter, but Clara discovers how much she really doesn't like Lieutenant Pink and Teddy gets introspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well gosh you guys! I am humbled beyond belief that the response to this fic has been so overwhelmingly enjoyed by everyone. I'm loving setting all of this up as everything starts to build to a crescendo. Thank you for reading and your comments make my day :) please enjoy! And don't worry, there is PLENTY of the Doctor next chapter...

Clara missed her supper that night, preferring to be alone following the day’s events. The children didn’t need supervision or her care during meals they shared with their parents. She remained where she was in the window seat long after she watched the Doctor’s form receding into the evening, her eyes staring into the darkness after he had disappeared. When nothing but her own reflection stared back as the evening enveloped all in murky darkness, she took up the book she had been reading and a warm blanket to drape over her as she read, head resting against the cold windowpane, the rain tapping against her temple. She felt dissatisfied with the book somehow, despite it having had engrossed her when she had started it several days prior. Now it felt stale and uninteresting to her, she craved other authors like a hunger gnawing within her. Several came to mind, perhaps the estate library would have a copy of Maupassant, or Byron, surely.

The small clock in her room chimed eight, the time when the Gregson’s dinner always ended, and with a reluctant sigh, she folded her book and left the comfort of her room to find the children and tuck them into bed for the evening. She went down the stairs quietly and treaded softly within the main entrance hall. She would prefer not to see Mr. or Mrs. Gregson after her huffy exit that afternoon, dreading the awkwardness that would no doubt linger between them. She had been foolish, and she owned it. To be frank, she wasn’t used to being emotional. Any extreme on the spectrum of feeling she rarely ever experienced, so being bombarded with anger, sadness, and embarrassment had sent her running in confusion and fear. She’d no idea why recent events had set her off like they did, unless it was the profound events that had occurred in a span of two days. Teddy breaking his ankle. A solider remaining on the estate premises to protect the family. The peculiar Doctor who had cemented himself as a permanent curiosity to be turned over and over again in her mind as she attempted to uncover his machinations. And, to be fair, she hadn’t been long working for the Gregsons and was still adjusting. She rationalized her emotions and felt more in control. Her momentary lapse in governing her feelings that afternoon had made her feel as though she were falling into a pit. What could one control, if not their own mind?

She listened at the door of the dining room and heard the chorus of the Gregson family talking with one another. Mild dread slipped through her. Would she enter and interrupt their dinner to take the children to bed, as she often did? Or wait until they had concluded their meal and talks of their own momentum, and snatch the children up as they left the dining room? No, that would be silly. She decided on the former; better to make everything seem right as rain and not out of the ordinary. Clara straightened, steeled herself, and knocked lightly on the door. 

The voices paused and Mr. Gregson bid her enter. She opened the door and saw them all looking at her. “Bedtime for the little ones.” She smiled falsely.

“Yes,” Mr. Gregson replied perfunctorily, “Yes I suppose it is. Children, kiss your mother good night, Cecily, roll your poor crippled brother to your mother, that’s a good girl.”

Clara opened the door wider to accommodate Teddy’s transport chair when Gregson continued, “And Clarissa, when you’ve put them to bed, come into the lounge. We want to have a word with you.”

There it was. Clara felt some of the color drain out of her face at the looming discussion of her radical and entirely inappropriate behavior. “Yes Mr. Gregson.” She managed, her voice hollow. Cecily pushed Teddy’s chair towards her and Clara took over and led them from the dining room, “Come along, you two. Were you behaved at supper?”

“No,” Cecily immediately replied. “Teddy hardly ate a thing. He played with his food all night.”

“Teddy,” Clara reprimanded, but there was no sternness in her voice.

“I wasn’t hungry!” he insisted.

They arrived at the steps. Clara looked up at the sweeping staircase and her arms felt weak just looking. “Cecily, you go on up, your brother and I will take a bit longer. I want you in your dressing gown by the time we’re up there, and I’ll read you an extra chapter tonight if you’ve tucked yourself in bed.” The young girl’s eyes brightened and she bounded up the steps faster than Clara had ever seen her. “Careful!” she called after the bouncing child, who slowed a tad. Clara turned back to Teddy and his chair. “Alright, are you ready?”

“Am I a burden?” he asked as Clara hoisted him up the first step. It was tricky to do, as she had to stand behind him and pull him up each step so the back wheels were set on the stair, her own pace going backwards.

“Don’t be daft,” she chided and pulled him up to the second stair. It wasn’t terribly difficult, but once her arms grew tired the higher they went, it would be.

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden, Teddy. I take care of you, this is what I do.” The next step.

“Like Lieutenant Pink?”

Clara yanked him up to the next stair. “No. He protects you. I care for you.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well I don’t have a sword, for one.”

“Why don’t you like swords?”

They were up to the fifth step and she could feel her arms and back starting to ache. Fifteen steps to go. She shut the thought from her mind and tugged him up to the next stair. “I never said I didn’t like them, only that I don’t want you playing with them.”

“Because they’re dangerous?”

“Because you could hurt yourself.”

“And you care about me so you don’t want me to hurt myself.”

Two more steps. Her upper arms had begun to tremble. “Yes, Teddy. I care about you very much and I want to keep you safe from harm.”

“If I died would you be sad?”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Would you?”

“I would be inconsolable, Teddy.”

“What does that mean?”

“I would cry and cry and cry. I wouldn’t sleep for weeks. I’d miss you every moment of every second for the rest of my life.”

Teddy thought for a moment. “So inconsolable means to love someone?”

Clara smiled though he couldn’t see it. “Sure, Teddy. But why all these questions? You know how much I care for you and love you.”

“Mother and father aren’t inconsolable about me, are they?”

Clara stopped their ascent as his words pierced her heart. She heard the tremor in his voice. He was either on the verge of tears or already crying. She maneuvered herself around the chair carefully so she crouched in front of it, stabilizing it with her arms. Clara looked at Teddy, whose eyes were always so big and bright and now were dull and muddy with tears that hadn’t yet fallen. “Oh, Teddy.” She whispered, her heart aching. She knew what it was like, to doubt a parent’s affection, all too well. “Don’t think that. Not for one moment. They love you very, very much. They just have different ways of showing it, that’s all.”

“Like how?”

“Like letting you eat so many sweets you get a stomach ache, remember that? Or when they bought you that new bicycle and you fell off of and skinned your knee? You didn’t see, but when you were riding it for the first time, your father was watching you and the look on his face, Teddy, he was so proud of you. He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, like if he stopped watching you for a moment he’d float away. That sounds a lot like love to me, doesn’t it?”

The sadness in his eyes seemed to falter a bit as his familiar brightness shone through. “Would they miss me if I died?”

“Even more than I would, and that’s saying something.”

He smiled. “Oh Clara.” And he leaned forward in his chair and wrapped his arms around her neck. She hugged him fiercely in return for as long as he needed. When he finally pulled away, his eyes weren’t teary.

She managed the rest of the steps better than she had thought, and let Teddy get ready for bed as he always liked, he insisting he could get changed into his pajamas on his own. She left to check on Cecily and found her waiting eagerly in her bed. “You brilliant girl,” Clara beamed as she pulled the plush armchair closer to the girl’s bedside. “I think you’ll love these next two chapters,” she continued, picking up The Adventures of Robin Hood from the table next to the bed. “They’re two of my favorites.”

Towards the end of the first chapter, Cecily’s eyes had fluttered shut and sleep overcame her. Clara doused the lights in the room and quietly went to check on Teddy. She found him in bed, remarkably. “How in the wide world did you manage that?”

He grinned at her. “I’m a witch.”

“You’re a lad so you’d be a warlock or a wizard. Witches are women.”

“I want to be a witch.”

“Alright then, you’re a witch.”

He smiled to himself contentedly. “Clara, even though I’m magical, I can’t make my ankle stop hurting.”

She sat on the edge of his bed and frowned. “It hurts?”

“Sort of achy.”

“How long has it been hurting?”

“Only during dinner and now.”

“Shall I send for a doctor?”

He shook his head. “It’s not that bad. Just uncomfortable.”

She kissed his forehead. “I’ll see what I can do tomorrow. Want me to read you some more Hawthorne tonight?”

He yawned in response. “Not tonight. I’m too sleepy.”

She bid him goodnight and turned down the oil lamp by his bed before shutting the door behind her.

Now was the moment she was dreading. An audience with the Gregsons. Alone. To no doubt discuss her behavior. No sense in putting it off any longer. She made her way downstairs and into the lounge where the couple was seated. They looked up at her entrance.

“There you are.” Mr Gregson announced as she waited expectantly for her trial by fire. “We wanted a word with you. It’s about Teddy, you see, this year we wanted to throw a big party for him for his sixth birthday.”

Clara stared at him dumbly for a moment. “Oh.”

“We want it to be a big affair, you see, and it will double as a banquet for my fellow trustees. A way of saying thank you for all their hard work, you know.”

“So it’s not really about Teddy, is it, then, if all those strangers are going to be there?” she asked before she could catch herself.

“Of course it will be,” Gregson replied stubbornly. “It’s all about Teddy. A few dozen or so other distinguished gentlemen will be there as well, that’s all. Now we need you to talk to the cook and arrange his favorite foods and desserts. You know most of his little friends he plays with, so we’ll leave it to you to invite them. Bonnie is familiar with our family friends so she’ll take care of those invitations personally.”

“Has he mentioned if he wants any gifts this year?” Bonnie added. “I tried picking his brain tonight over supper but nothing doing.”

“Well,” Clara tried mischievously, “He has talked about trains an awful lot lately. I think if you and Mr. Gregson arranged some sort of trip, just the four of you, he would love that ever so much. Maybe up to Scotland for a few weeks, spend some time together?”

Mr. Gregson tugged at his moustache as his eyes studied the ceiling, “We might arrange something of that sort, yes. Scotland, you say?”

“Or the countryside, somewhere outside of London, I think.”

“Is that really all he wants?” Bonnie insisted. “No toys or sweets or anything of that sort?”

Clara shook her head. “I think he really wants to go on a train with you all. He’s growing up fast,” she added vaguely, letting the weight of her words linger in the air. 

“Right you are.” Theodore nodded studiously. “I’ll have Renfield fetch the train schedule tomorrow so we might have a look for next week.”

Clara wasn’t entirely sure how she was going to go about planning an entire party in just over a week for young Teddy. But she was too relieved at having narrowly avoided a harsh lecture to mind the extra work. And it was all for Teddy. She spent the next few hours in her room writing out invitations to all of Teddy’s friends. By the thirtieth, her hand had begun to ache profoundly, and she had to force herself to stop for the evening. The clock read quarter to eleven, but she still felt restlessly awake. Her mind alighted on an idea she’d had earlier in the evening, and she eagerly went to grab her shawl. She wrapped it around her nightgown, and noticed it carried the faint warm smell of the Doctor’s house. Like fireplace and old books. She burrowed her nose in it and deeply inhaled, and if she closed her eyes, it was like she was sitting across from him in that snug room of his, sharing talks and laughter about authors and London and music. If she tried very hard, she could see his pale eyes dancing in the flames of the coal fireplace. How curious.

She tiptoed down the upstairs hall, shielding the glare from the candle she held from flickering too brightly against any of the doors. Quietly she made her way down the staircase until she stood in the entrance hall again, and continued her quiet journey to the library. Knowing the rest of the household slept upstairs, she didn’t see the harm in trading her candle for an oil lamp to see better after carefully shutting the door of the library behind her. Clara looked around the dim room lined with orderly and dustless books, and moved to the ‘M’ section. She found it rather strange that the Gregson’s kept their entire library alphabetized rather than by section. Any reader knew it made more sense to alphabetize by section, rather than alphabetize the entire collection; one finds manuals and almanacs squeezed between poetry. It was absurd.

A careful perusal of the shelves was met with disappointment when no copies of Maupassant yielded themselves. She supposed it was a bit of a stretch. She turned and went in search of Byron. Her eyes glided over the shelf, and she had to hold the oil lamp closer to the spines to see them better in the darkness. So engrossed she was in her hunt, she nearly dropped her oil lamp when a hand seized her shawled shoulder and turned her about quickly. Panic gripped her until the light from the lamp illuminated the figure who’d accosted her to be that of Lieutenant Pink.

“Miss Oswald!” he whispered in surprise

Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears and her whole body shook with nerves, she couldn’t form a response.

“My sincerest apologies, I thought you were an intruder.”

“Well I’m not,” she managed, steadying herself with a hand over her heart. “So if you would be so kind, please release me.”

He quickly dropped his hand from her shoulder. She tugged her shawl back into place around her where his sudden seizure of her had dislodged it. “Apologies.” He repeated. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

She turned and pulled the copy of Byron she had just found before he startled her and held it up for him to see with an irritated flick. “I didn’t realize I needed an excuse to travel about the estate at night.”

“I apologized, didn’t I? My job is to keep you and everyone else here safe. I saw the light under the door and thought you were a burglar.”

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling the grounds or something useful? Stopping prowlers from entering in the first place?”

“It’s raining.”

“You’re very observant.”

He straightened at her tone and sarcastic words. “I’m going to accompany you back to your room now, Miss Oswald.”

“I am perfectly fine—”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” He said, his voice stern. 

She held her tongue, which was rather difficult under the circumstances. She felt like a petulant child being told to go to her room. And who was he to tell her what to do? But there was no sense in arguing the point, she concluded bitterly. Clara stalked past him and out of the library. He quickly followed after her and caught up so he was walking by her side. “Allow me,” he said and before she could stop him he had taken the oil lamp from her hand and held it aloft between them. She glared up at him through the gloom. It seemed at every turn he did everything in his power to upset her.

The two of them started up the staircase in silence. When they were halfway up, he asked quietly, “And what book was so important that you felt it was necessary to find at this hour?”

She didn’t answer him for several long seconds, still angry. “Byron.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You like that prolific whiner?”

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant.” She contradicted lowly.

“Sorry, only, I didn’t take you for the melancholic sort.”

“And what sort did you take me for?”

He turned and looked at her, that sly half-smirk of his tugging on his lips. “Not that sort.”

She felt her face flush at his words, whatever they meant, and she looked away from him. What was he implying? “Well,” she cleared her throat, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

She could feel his gaze on her as he added quietly, “I wouldn’t, but when a book won’t open what choice is left?”

Clara didn’t look at him. They’d arrived at the upstairs hall and she swiftly made her way to her room. “Good evening, Lieutenant Pink.” She said curtly before closing the door, leaving her alone in the darkness, clutching onto her shawl and Byron.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara visits the Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt so guilty for the lack of Doctor in the previous chapter, here's chapter 6! :)

The next day she awoke to the sounds of morning birds. Her toes flexed beneath her blankets excitedly as she thought on what she would do that day. Before she’d dressed she went to Teddy’s room to check on him. He yawned and grumbled when she lightly shook him awake in the dim light of morning. “How’s your ankle,” she whispered, “Still hurt?”

He nodded sleepily. 

She stroked his hair. “Go back to bed. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Clara washed, dressed, and managed to quickly finish up the seven remaining invitations for Teddy’s birthday party. She wrapped the bundle with string and placed it in her jacket pocket before slipping out of the sleeping house. Luckily, Lieutenant Pink never crossed her path.

The morning air was chilled, but the rain had finally stopped. The sky was overcast, the morning sun casting the grey clouds in muted orange. She hailed a carriage and rode the span of several blocks. All of London was preparing to greet the day. Shop owners were washing their windows, and coffee stalls were open sending delightful smells of freshly ground beans into the air. Men in street clothes clogged the road as they moved in or out of the city for work that day. In a quarter of an hour she arrived outside the Doctor’s door and paid the driver the fare from her purse, sending him off on his way.

Clara stared up at the small blue apartment squeezed between two high stone buildings. She felt her heart pound in her chest as she suddenly grew nervous. What if it was too early and he was still asleep? He did appear to be a gentleman, after all. Her eyes caught a golden glow shifting through the heavily curtained lower left window, as though someone had moved across the source of the light. She smiled quietly to herself and started up the steps. She paused before the door, her conviction failing her momentarily. Faintly from within, and barely audible through the din of the London street, she perceived a violin being played. Four strong knocks on his door, then she waited tentatively. The violin stopped.

The door was flung open in a matter of seconds and there he was. He looked especially pleased with himself for some reason. He wore a handsome velvet smoking jacket in deep crimson that set off his grey hair remarkably. In one hand he held both a violin and bow. “Clara!” he exclaimed with a grin, and she suddenly felt as though they were back to where they had been, swapping stories over the fire two nights ago. 

“Hello, Doctor.” She smiled warmly. “I’m sorry to trouble you—”

“Never mind that, get inside before you catch a chill.” He beckoned her inward as he held the door wide for her. She crossed the threshold and brushed past him through the narrow doorway. When she’d entered properly, he shut the door behind them, and she once again marveled at the quiet that surrounded them when all of London bustled just beyond the walls.

“I didn’t know whether or not you’d be up, being a gentleman.” She said. The two of them stood in the narrow hall facing one another, and Clara couldn’t help but notice how close they were. If she were to take a small step forward, they’d be flat up against one another. She had to crane her neck to look up at his towering height, and in the dim light of the hall, his eyes seemed a rich green, somehow.

“Gentleman?” he almost snorted, then looked down at the violin in his hand and his smoking jacket. “I see your point.”

Clara felt her face flush due to their prolonged proximity. “I actually came in regards to Teddy,”

“And how is he?”

“Fine, although last night he complained of an ache in his ankle.”

The Doctor pursed his lips in thought and his eyebrows knitted together in an impressive display. “Is that all?”

“He also didn’t eat his supper last night…?”

“Were there vegetables?”

“Yes.”

“Perfectly understandable, then.”

Clara bit her lip. “You don’t seem worried.”

He raise his eyebrows. “Is there any reason I should be? He broke his ankle, did you think he’d be all fine and dandy the next day?”

If someone else had said that to her, she would have taken affront. But there was nothing in his tone that implied even a modicum of disrespect or sarcasm; he was genuinely curious. “I suppose not.”

“I fix people, I’m not a miracle worker.” He added before starting down the hall. Clara followed.

“About that,” she started slowly, questions she’d had for days now burning within her. “You said you hadn’t taken on patients in a while, years, actually, and you never told me why?”

He stopped short in the hall and she bumped into his back, velvet brushing her face. She stepped back. He stood stock still and didn’t turn around to face her. There was a pause, then he replied quietly, “I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

She let his words dissolve into the hall before clarifying softly, “Fix people?”

“Save people.”

His words hung in the air around them for a time. Slowly he turned to her, his face looking somehow older, more vulnerable. She’d never seen him in such a state, and her breath caught in her throat. “Clara, there are certain things a person must go through in their life. And there are certain things a person is not meant to experience. The unlucky few who encountered the latter, I had to deal with. It got to a point where I couldn’t tell myself from the victims, and I had to stop. There were…other reasons, as well, but that’s the most of it.”

She stared into his eyes that had gone so pale in the light. She studied his face for a time. “The Doctor who saves people, but can’t save himself.” She murmured, deep in thought.

He smiled sadly. “And now I’ve told you one of the many things I swore I wouldn’t. How do you wrest it out of me?”

“Many things?” Clara repeated, curiosity growing. He made a face at her.

“Careful,” He warned with a finger and a sly grin.

He continued down the hall until they arrived in the same room he’d operated on Teddy in. The room looked less cluttered, as though he’d tidied up a bit. Just a bit. The Doctor moved to the shelf on the wall where dozens of bottles sat, and began peering at the labels. Clara approached his side and looked herself. There was some level of comfort between them that she couldn’t understand, but it felt perfectly natural to be alone with him now, and close to him. She wanted to be near to him, as if the closer she got the more she would know about him. “What’s this one?” Clara asked, pointing to a bottle with light purple liquid in it.

“Eye of newt.”

Her eyes widened but her nerves were checked when she saw him flash a toothy ‘I got you good, didn’t I?’ grin at her. She huffed at him. He elaborated, “It’s a form of sleeping draught. Powerful. Even looking at it on occasion makes me tired.”

“You must have a weak constitution.”

“Now see here—”

“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing to a dark red bottle that matched his velvet jacket. He took it from the shelf and uncorked it, holding it out to her.

“You may know, have a sniff.”

She hovered over the bottle and inhaled delicately. She crinkled her nose. “Smells like my grandmother.”

He blinked at her, his playful mood dissipating. “Clara, this is alcohol.”

She nodded. “Sounds about right.”

He awkwardly replaced the cork. “Oh.”

Clara shrugged. “Because of her I don’t touch the stuff.”

“A wise decision if I may applaud you. Liquor turns men into beasts and women into—” now his cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean to imply—that was inappropriate of me to insinuate—I only meant that—”

She laughed, taking the bottle from his hands and putting it back on the shelf. “It’s alright, Doctor. I’m not a lady.”

He frowned suddenly and looked at her almost sternly. “Why should that matter? I respect you, and should mind my tongue.”

She looked up into his face for a long moment. No one had ever said they respected her before. No one had ever really showed her respect to begin with. “Doctor,” she started, wishing she could convey what she was feeling through her words, “If I may, I’d like to express that the feeling is mutual.”

Now it was his turn to stare at her for a moment, as if he were trying to process her words as much as she had had to process his. Finally, and all at once, his face lit up in a smile. “Grand.”

They both turned back to the shelf before them at once. He seemed to enjoy her game of asking about the bottles, for he started pointing out several and telling her what they were. “This one is for applying on warts. I once had a patient who tried taking it orally, and although I was greatly concerned, you know,” he made an over-the-top, serious, concerned face to demonstrate, “I had to try terribly hard not to laugh. It’s harmless when swallowed, mind you; it wasn’t as if I was having myself a good cackle while the patient shriveled up and died on my doorstep or something equally vulgar.”

Clara delighted in his story and he moved on to the next bottle; a small green one with a white label. “And this one, here, this is an extraordinarily powerful sedative. But it only works on the body and limbs; the mind stays wide awake, the eyes can move about, and in some cases the person may even speak clearly.”

“But they would be unable to move, what’s the purpose?”

“A local anesthetic, really, it’s not meant to sedate the entire body, but it can, if the dose is just right. I don’t use this one, I have another local anesthetic that’s not as strong so the risk of entire body sedation is lessened. I imagine the full body sensation of a dose of this would be akin to sleep paralysis. Terrifying.”

She shuddered slightly. What a macabre idea. “How about that one?” she asked, nodding to the one next to it. He picked up the medium sized blue bottle and several pills rattled about inside it.

“Teddy’s relief. Take one as needed when the pain starts, and after four hours, another if the pain persists. No more than three in twelve hours.” He placed the almost full bottle in her hand.

“This is too much, surely he won’t need all of them?”

“Not likely. Return the rest to me when he’s had what he’s needed. The pain should recede by the end of the week, I expect to see you again then.”

She felt her face fluctuate between confusion, surprise, and happiness in less than one second. Why did the thought of seeing him again make her so warm inside? “Then we have an appointment, Doctor.”

“Now, you didn’t come all the way here just for this, did you?” he inquired, eyebrows rising in skepticism.

“Oh,” she remembered her errands, which she’d entire forgotten until that moment. “I actually need to go post some letters, and I was going to go to the market to pick something up for the cook’s daughter, who had a birthday the day Teddy hurt himself. I’ve been so busy with him I forgot entirely.”

“Allow me to play chaperone, that is, if you don’t mind my accompaniment.” He held up the violin and waggled it jokingly as he made a comically eager face.

“You’re intolerable.” She chided, rolling her eyes at his terrible pun.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he sniffed haughtily and straightened, looking at her down his nose, and continuing with all the pomp and circumstance of a courtly gentleman, “but I am insufferable.”

She laughed. “You don’t mind leaving the house?”

“I’ve been cooped up for too long. Cabin fever has set into my very bones.” There was a straining in his voice and his face wore deep lines as he spoke.

She wanted to ask, ‘Why now? Why not in the twelve years you spent here all alone did you never leave on your own? What’s changed?’, but something in her told her she already knew the answer. “Then allow me to play Doctor and prescribe you fresh air and sunshine. Although, this is London, the sunshine might be hard to come by.”

His face lit up. “Grand! Now?”

She laughed at his enthusiasm. “Come along, then.”

They went down the hall, he quickly slipped into a side room and in a matter of seconds he had returned without violin, and his smoking jacket had been changed to a black one. She noticed the red lining inside and smiled to herself. Was there nothing about this man’s attire that retained a single ounce of normality? Not that she minded, really. In fact, quite the opposite. She loved it.

He took the top hat sitting on a hook by the door and dusted it unceremoniously with his sleeve. She watched as he placed it on his head, and the effect was startling. If he had been walking down the street, she wouldn’t pay him a second glance. He looked like a regular gentleman. With a final pat on the top of the hat to settle it on his head, he smiled down at her nervously. There was a shadow of vulnerability that passed across his face again. She knew he was nervous, but he still wanted to go with her. Did she make him brave?

They stood before the door hesitantly for a moment. “Well,” he breathed with a note of finality.

“Well?” She asked, and she filled the word with support and kindness. The word must have had the desired effect, for he squared his shoulders and opened the door, and all of London sounded around them. They moved from the house and stood on the steps, he shut the door behind them. Clara looked up at him, his face was tense, his eyes watchful and darting around. She carefully, slowly, tentatively, snaked her hand around his arm in a show of encouragement. That seemed to bring him back from his nerves, for he looked down at her hand, then to her reassuring smile. He placed his opposite hand over hers, and arm in arm, they descended the stairs and moved into the throng of the street.

“Clara,” he asked after they’d walked several paces, “where’s the post office?”


	7. Chapter 7

London was bustling (but when was it not?). The morning crept across the sky shortening shadows and alleviating the frost in the air. Clara and the Doctor walked arm in arm down the street, pressed closely together to avoid collisions with carriages, running children, and gruff-looking workmen hurrying about. Smells accosted them from every corner. Coffee, wood smoke, horses, cigars, spices, and wet earth all mingled together into a cacophony of flavor, mixed with the ever-lingering scent of dampness that seemed to encompass London on even the nicest of days. The sounds around them were deafening at times as stall owners harked their wares and cabs rumbled past on the uneven cobblestone, in addition to the constant roar of thousands of individual conversations rolling together through the streets. 

Clara knew she ought to feel a level of trepidation at holding the Doctor so closely, or holding him at all, really, but she felt at ease, as though this was what they did every day. She never had a chaperone before, especially not a gentleman, and she did feel slightly underdressed to be walking beside such a distinguished man, but it didn’t bother her. He didn’t seem to mind their proximity either; in fact he held on to her hand around his arm with his opposite hand, pulling her closer towards him and out of harm’s way if a rather large obstacle came towards them in the street. It felt natural. Their whole manner with one another shared this naturalness; she felt she could drop the pretense with him when they were alone, because he seemed to put no stock in such facades when they were sequestered from the rest of society. She wondered at the change in him in the past when another person had been present. When he bid her good evening the first time they’d met, he was so formal and stiff by the cab, and just yesterday he had been positively uncomfortable as soon as Bonnie entered the scene. Clara determined to study him that morning to see if his behavior shifted as they walked through the crowds of London, together yet alone in the indistinguishable throng. 

She reflected on her situation. A month ago, she had lived in a room no bigger than a closet above a clockmaker’s store. She barely got by doing the washings for neighbors or running errands for the clockmaker, Mr. Farrault. She had no siblings or remaining family to help her, and no inheritance or title. The Gregsons she knew, as Mr. Gregson had known her father, and she’d ran into Bonnie recently. Their conversation revealed the Gregsons needed a nanny for their children, and Bonnie offered Clara the position, as she knew her character and thought she would be fit for the job. Within two days, Clara had left her humble room above the shop and moved into the sprawling Gregson estate, caring for five year old Teddy, and eight year old Cecily. 

Clara was not a lady. Her family had been middle class, yet her mother held high hopes for Clara to rise in the world, and had done everything in her power to ensure she received an education within their means. In those years of transition between girl and womanhood, Clara found herself pursued by young men with no prospects who didn’t interest her. Gentlemen weren’t in her class, so she rarely held any sort of prolonged communication with them. Being escorted by one such as the Doctor had never seemed a possibility. And yet, there was something about the Doctor that made him seem something more than a gentleman. He was mysterious, but posed no threat. There was nothing in his conduct that betrayed anything even mildly intimidating, and Clara found it to be oddly refreshing from the men who often showed interest in her with leering gazes and unabashed innuendo. That was not to say the Doctor took interest in her that way—she enjoyed their easy company, and the fact that he was a rather good looking member of the opposite sex held no weight whatsoever. He was merely a gentleman accompanying her through the dangerous London streets. Holding her close to keep her out of harm’s way. Doing his duty as a gentleman.

A familiar and favorite smell drifted towards her, and she immediately perked up. He noticed her shifting next to him and he peered down at her inquisitively. She scanned the street for the source until her eyes locked onto a stall with a faded red awning. “There!” she exclaimed.

“There?”

“If you’ll forgive the awful cliché, the vendor across the street sells hot cross buns, the best in all of London.”

“I never understood how buns could be cross. Does the baker prod them incessantly until they become angry?”

She started towards the stall, breaking their hold. He followed close by. “Hush, you. I’m starving. I left before I could take breakfast.”

She successfully maneuvered them across the street and they stood before the vendor. Glazed doughy buns with scores on their tops met their eyes.

“Two, please.” Clara smiled to the stall owner, reaching into her purse and handing over several pence.

“Two?” his eyebrows raised, “your appetite is remarkable.”

The stall owner handed her two hot buns peeking out of their paper wrappings. She held one out to the Doctor to take. “Haven’t you ever had one?”

He looked at the bun held out to him as though it might be a poisonous snake. “When I was young.”

“Well, then?”

The Doctor hesitated, then took it. He had lived as a recluse for over a decade, and the world must be foreign to him. Even things once familiar were strange. She wanted him to know he was safe, that the world wasn’t going to hurt him because he stepped foot back into it. Small steps. And hot cross buns were one of them.

She took a bite of her own to show him it was safe as she casually looked across the street, hoping if she wasn’t watching him he wouldn’t feel such pressure. She pretended to watch a woman dismount from a carriage, and out of the corner of her eye she watched him slowly take a small bite. She turned back to see his reaction and raised her eyebrows. He raised his back. 

“Hot.” He pronounced gingerly around the mouthful.

“Hence the name.”

The two of them continued on their way up the street respectively eating their meager breakfast. Clara noticed his eyes wandered about their surroundings distractedly with an air of nervousness at times. Three blocks up they arrived at the post office, and the Doctor and she parted briefly so he could attend a newspaper stall just outside while she posted Teddy’s birthday invitations within.

Clara could see him through the front window, as the stall was just before the building, and he was looking down with interest at a newspaper displayed. His curiosity seemed to overshadow his nerves, distracting him from the distractions around him. When she’d concluded her mailing, she turned to leave, when she noticed a gentleman and a lady were warily looking out the window and speaking lowly to one another. Clara frowned, but a casual glance in their line of sight revealed nothing unusual but the Doctor in their purview; whatever they were looking at must have been beyond him. She exited and returned to his side to find him examining a headline.

“Is this what Lady Gregson was referring to the other day?” he inquired, gesturing to the newspaper. She looked down and read the bold type: “Last Night Another Robbery: Valuables Stolen”.

“Afraid so. It’s funny—these sort of things happen every day in the poorer districts and no one blinks an eye, but as soon as they start happening to those with money, all of London goes mad.” Clara had said it with a casual tone and thought nothing of it, but when she looked up he was frowning down at her with piercing blue eyes.

“Funny?”

“Not funny ha-ha. Funny like an observation. Interesting.”

“Oh, right.” He turned to look down at the headline once more thoughtfully before the two of them started back towards the Gregson estate, Clara planning to find something for the cook’s daughter in a nearby toy store. As they passed the post office, Clara saw through the building window those two people staring at them as they left. No doubt they found the companionship between Clara and the Doctor peculiar, as their classes clashed tremendously. She wasn’t dressed like a well-to-do lady, she was in a simple dark blue dress, lace around the cuffs and neck were the only niceties adoring it, and the bodice was simple satin. “You mentioned poor districts,” he said after several paces, bringing her out of the sudden dreary mood that had affixed itself so firmly to her countenance. “Are you familiar with many of them?”

“More than familiar,” admitted Clara. “I told you I was no lady, my upbringing will attest to that.”

“There you go with that again.” He chided. “You speak as though not being a lady is some sort of cardinal sin. I can tell you I’ve met many women who called themselves ladies and none of them had half the class you carry yourself with, and not one of them could hold a conversation about literature like you do.”

Clara’s cheeks warmed. He didn’t look at her when he spoke, instead he continued to watch the people they passed, as if his words were merely truth and not some deep or insightful compliment towards her character. It was one of the reasons she liked being around him. He was so oblivious at times of what he said, either good or bad. He was guided by blunt truth, and didn’t seem to understand the effect his words had on people. It was refreshing to hold a conversation with someone with no ulterior motives or hidden meanings meant to be secreted out. Clara thought about those half-smirks Lieutenant Pink flashed at her, and his cryptic words last night; the communication between he compared to the Doctor was pedestrian. She wanted to thank the Doctor for his kind words towards her, but thought better of it, remembering his anxiety at being thanked for anything in the past. Perhaps he didn’t like being thanked because he didn’t think he did or said anything meriting thanks? He spoke what was on his mind; whether or not his words affected the person they were directed to was merely a superfluous detail to him. She chose a different tact, “My mother wanted me to have an education. My love for books grew from that.”

“And what of your father? Surely he endeavored the same?”

Clara chewed the inside of her cheek. Her father was not an easy topic. He had been distant, cold, and she had never felt good enough for him. He’d wanted her to have an education, but his attitude towards her attaining one were almost mocking. She tried so hard to please him with what she learned, but no matter how hard she strove, she never rose to meet his standards. It was painful, wanting someone so desperately to love you and approve of you when they seemed utterly nonchalant about it. She didn’t want to burden the Doctor, or anyone, with that knowledge, so she replied with a simple, “Yes.”

She felt his eyes on her for a moment, and wondered if he could sense her hesitation.

“Do you think liking Byron makes one a melancholic?” she blurted out. The Doctor looked down at her sudden query and he thought for a moment, pursing his lips as he did so.

“He writes about lost love and death. A bit macabre, a bit melancholic, but it’s beautiful, as well. I think one can like Byron without being melancholic, just as one can like Austen without being a hopeless romantic. It helps, certainly, to have that predisposition, but it isn’t necessary to enjoy the work to its fullest. We all bring our own lives and experiences to everything we read. No one passage is the same to every person. A morose fellow may read Byron and feel profound representation, while an effervescent personality may read him and feel extraordinary reflection and meaning. It’s all interpretive.”

She thought about Lieutenant Pink’s comment the night prior, and smiled at the soldier’s own cursory consideration of the poet. The Doctor’s thoughts were the same as hers. She forgot to respond to him, and he continued, “Why did you ask?”

Clara watched a horse travel next to them pulling a carriage. “No reason.”

What happened next all seemed to happen at once. In hindsight, Clara could remember every detail of the event, but in the moment it all blurred in heart-pounding confusion and fear. As Clara was watching the cabriolet pass her, she didn’t see the wagon traveling at dizzying speed race towards her down the road. The sound of the rabid horse’s hooves were muffled from the general loudness of the street, so she had no inclination of the danger she was in. By the time her gaze returned frontwards, she could see the whites of the horse’s wild eyes and could discern the startled face of the man sitting atop the wildly uncontrolled wagon. She couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t react, so present was the danger her body seemed to have shut down entirely, unable to process anything but her death a mere heartbeat away. Her muscles didn’t have time to brace for impact; so close the catastrophe loomed. She distantly thought she could hear someone shout her name.

A firm hand seized her arm and ripped her from the mad path of the horse and wagon, spinning her to the side and just barely away from the collision that had been mere inches from occurring. Her pulse pounded in her ears, the loudness of London paled in comparison, as her position now allowed her to see the wagon pass by not even a foot from her face, the wind of its proximity almost toppling her back. She realized too late that the Doctor had grabbed her and spun her out of the way, an act that had left him directly in the line of fire, as it were. She watched in horror as the horse barreled into him as he nimbly tried to step away, but he wasn’t quick enough. Man and galloping horse collided roughly, and the powerful impact sent him crashing into the throng of people around them. His fall was absorbed by the Londoners, and the Doctor sank out of sight among them as the out of control wagon barreled up the street and away.

Clara yelled for him, but her voice was lost in the noise. She clawed her way through the crowd as quickly as she could, limbs and fingers numb, muscles tense, her vision tunnel-like. The people around were so tightly pressed Clara began to panic as her attempts to get to the Doctor became near impossible; broad shoulders and overly large dresses were like insurmountable walls to her small stature and trembling figure. The collision played again in her mind; the Doctor’s wide eyes, the top hat tumbling from his head, his arms flying crookedly through the air, and the terrible crash as the massive body of the crazed horse smashed against him and tumbled him like a surging river down, down, down.

Clara’s attempts to get to him became desperate. She shoved people out of her way, pushed them violently to the side and pressed her way through the crowd until she could make out part of his body on the ground. She pulled people away, pushed to make space around him, and finally collapsed beside him, her breath coming in gasps, eyes fearful as they finally set upon the broken form of the Doctor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> congratulations for reading 52 pages of this so far?? ya'll get gold stars <3
> 
> Thanks ever so for the kind comments and reactions. I appreciate them so much! you're all amazing

“Murder!”

All of London’s noise seemed to assault Clara’s ears at once in a tidal wave, her ears rang with the pummeling cacophony around her. Everything seemed louder, every detail became elephantine. The Doctor lay before her on the cobblestone, his body twisted so she couldn’t see his face. The legs and dresses around them created a claustrophobic wall. She reached out to touch him with trembling hands, but someone wrenched her to her feet before her fingers could find him. Anger tore through her. “Let me go—he’s with me!”

The hand on her arm released her when she tore out of its grasp and knelt by the Doctor’s side once more.

“Murder!”

She reached out again with shaking arms and touched his right shoulder. He didn’t move. Clara gently pulled his shoulder towards her so his body would turn and allow her to see his face and deem him live or dead.

Moving him was a terrible idea. 

His eyes shot open and his face contorted in a silent scream. He seized his left arm in agony, veins bulging in his neck and at his temples as the painful wail never left his throat. Clara didn’t have time to feel any relief as to the Doctor’s life being spared, for his countenance was so frightening and terrible that she could only panic further.

“MURDERER!” A woman’s voice yelled, and Clara recognized it distantly to be the one that had been screaming earlier. She looked up to see a haggard old woman force her way through the crowd until she was near enough to seize the Doctor. Before Clara could stop her clearly malignant goal, the old hag had grabbed the Doctor by his left shoulder and tried to wrench him from the ground. He jerked away violently from her touch, his eyes wild. This time the scream escaped him, and it was awful and shook Clara to her very bones. His pale blue irises found Clara’s for the first time, and she could only liken his expression to that of an animal cornered by a butcher. The old hag lunged again for him, whether seeking to injure him or abduct him her motives were unclear, but Clara pushed her back, and two men in the crowd grabbed the mad woman and hauled her away as she continued to howl of murder.

Clara put a hand under the Doctor’s head so he wouldn’t be resting on the cold and rugged cobblestone. He had a small gash above his left eye that spilled crimson down his cheekbone, and rocks and pebble imbedded into his face where he had landed on the ground. He clutched his upper left arm so tightly his knuckles were white; the shoulder of his jacket was ripped open and she could see blood staining the white of his shirt. “Doctor—”

“Clara,” his voice was a shaking gasp, she could hear the pain in his tone. “Are you alright?” What on earth did he mean by that? He was the one who got hit by the wagon and horse. Had he smacked his head to hard?

“Doctor, what can I do?”

“Are you alright.” He repeated adamantly through clenched teeth as though the act of speaking hurt him further.

“I’m fine.” She assured him. “You saved me, I’m fine. Doctor, please, how can I help?”

Before he could respond, a man pushed through the crowd towards them, “I saw it all from my carriage, is he hurt? I can take him to a hospital—”

“NO!” Clara leapt back at the sudden force in the Doctor’s tone. His eyes were suddenly livid and panicked. 

The carriage driver rebutted, “Sir, you’re hurt, you need to go to—”

“No!” the Doctor repeated with quivering lips, then, turning to Clara, his voice paper thin and imploring, “No hospitals. Please.”

She nodded and looked back up to the driver, “He’s a physician, and he has everything he needs to take care of himself at home. It’s just a few blocks, can you take us?”

In response, the driver came near and tried to right the Doctor. Once again the Doctor vehemently jerked away from the man’s touch as though it were a branding iron. “Doctor, we have to get you home,” Clara entreated as she still firmly held him by the back of the head and neck. “We’re going to move you to this man’s carriage, can you stand? Let us help you.”

The Doctor warily eyed the carriage driver’s offered arms and his gaze traveled for the first time to thick throng of faces around them watching him. She saw the fear grow on his face at their scrutiny. Carefully, she lifted him up so he was in a sitting position, trying to mind his injury. He flinched with the driver took him around the chest but didn’t protest when he was hauled to his feet. She took his right side and the driver took his left, and they half walked, half carried him to the waiting carriage through the wall of people watching. The Doctor’s legs gave out twice and his feet fumbled on the ground beneath them, but they made it to the coach and got him safely inside. 

He closed his eyes once he and she were alone within, his face a mask of pain. Clara lifted her skirt around the ankle and tore a swatch of cloth from her petticoat and bringing it to his injured temple. He winced, but didn’t pull away from her touch as she gently wiped away the blood from the wound which, contrary to the amount of red on his face, was actually rather small. “Have you a death wish?” she asked after several moments, trying to control the tremor in her voice and hands.

His eyes cracked open and he peered at her for a moment. “I could ask you the same.”

They arrived outside his house in a matter of minutes, and between the driver and Clara, he got up the steps and over the threshold of his house. She thanked the driver, and helped the Doctor inside, shutting the door behind them so all of London fell away into silence leaving the two alone.

They slowly made their way towards the closest room. It appeared to be a front parlour, but unlike the Gregson’s sprawling parlour, this one was smaller and more informal. She sat him gently on an elegant faded settee. He continued to clutch his left arm and shoulder in obvious pain, and a low hiss escaped through his teeth.

“What can I do?”

He looked up at her. “What?”

“To help you, what can I do?”

“Clara, I could not possibly ask your help with this.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “What are you going to do, then? Fix it yourself? You can’t even move your arm.”

He took a breath to steady himself. “You are a Governess, not a nursemaid.” 

She looked him straight in the eye. “So that title prevents me from giving you help when you need it?”

“Clara, I appreciate your offer of help but I wouldn’t dare inquire after it. I thank you for returning me here but I must insist you leave.”

“I shan’t go until I know you’re alright.”

“I am alright!” as he said it, he couldn’t hide the wince that came from exerting himself.

“No, you’re not. To hell with decency or what’s proper, you’re hurt and you need assistance.”

He didn’t look at her, instead his gaze fixed sternly on the opposite wall. “I’ll manage.”

“You can’t do it yourself. What shall you do? Call for a friend?” she felt poorly for bringing up his lack of acquaintances, and even more so when she saw the look on his face falter at her words, but she was determined to help him. He was being a stubborn child about it all, and she felt hurt, somehow. As though he suddenly started caring about her propriety by putting her in a situation that didn’t befit her station, which wasn’t the way their relationship had been in the past. She liked how their walls came down and class boundaries dissipated between them and they could just be themselves with one another. Why the sudden stiff civility? “Doctor, I’m here. I can help you. Let me.”

He clenched his jaw and his eyebrows knitted as he stalwartly tried to come up with another reason to refuse her help. He was beginning to realize she was more stubborn than himself. Finally, and with a sigh of surrender, he said, “I’ve either dislocated it or broken it. I’ll need to set it for now. I have a roll of gauze in my office, second door on the right. Should be in a drawer of my desk.” Before he could finish, Clara was already on her way out of the room, “And don’t snoop about!”

She went to the room he spoke of and opened two drawers before she found a large roll of bandages. Despite his request to decline any attempts at snooping, she couldn’t very well keep her eyes from wandering over the contents strewn atop it. Documents scrawled in shorthand, music paper peppered with ink blots, maps, old medical files, all with etchings in the margins, as well as inkwells and pens made up the cluttered mass. She remembered the blood on his shoulder injury, and her eyes alighted on a portable metal basin in one corner, and a cabinet with clean rags stacked neatly within. Taking the basin and several rags, she went to the shelf of medicines and pills, and took down the bottle of alcohol he’d shown her just that morning. Everything balanced in her arms, she returned to the front parlour.

She found the Doctor attempting unsuccessfully to remove his jacket with one arm; the task and exertion seemed to be causing him to hurt more than he already was. She was by his side in four quick strides, placing her finds beside him on the settee. With unprompted nimble fingers, she helped him ease out of the jacket, whose left shoulder was tattered and freshly frayed. She placed it on the arm of the settee and turned back to him to see him reluctantly unbuttoning his vest, which she helped him remove over his injured shoulder. He then sat still and morose in his shirt, and made no signs to remove it. “Doctor,” she implored quietly. “It’s alright.” He didn’t move. Clara stared at the red stain on his left shoulder and could make out part of his skin where the shirt was torn. Decency prevented him from disrobing further. If his tenacious attempts to prevent her help were going to cause his wound to fester, that would be on him entirely. Clara would tolerate no such reluctance. She reached for the top button of his shirt, and the action seemed to surprise him greatly. He quickly swatted her hand away, and his own hesitated over the button she had been trying to undo.

With a slow and trembling hand, he started unbuttoning the white shirt from the collar down, stopping halfway, and maneuvered his left arm out of the sleeve with difficulty so his shoulder, arm, and only a quarter of his chest was revealed; the minimum possible exposure. She saw his face redden at being uncovered thus before her, and he turned his head away from her as she sat by his left side. Clara examined his shoulder; it was swollen and cut up where he’d landed on the cobblestone, but it didn’t appear mangled beyond fixing. The red blood on his shoulder stood out in stark contrast with his porcelain pale skin. She couldn’t help but see that his upper arm was as lean and muscular as his forearm had been when she had glimpsed it when he operated on Teddy.

Clara emptied some of the alcohol into the metal basin and dipped a rag to soak up the contents. She raised it to his shoulder and pressed. A surprised yelp caught in his throat, but he steadied himself and didn’t pull away. “Sorry,” she muttered as she cleaned the wound, placing her free hand on his shoulder and found it remarkably cold as she worked.

“What are you apologizing for?” he asked, genuinely curious, between tightly clenched teeth.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Sterilizing an open wound? Why ever would that hurt?”

She smiled at his meager attempt at sarcasm, for it seemed as though he were coming back to himself and the easy rapport the two had. She cleaned all of the blood off and the wound had ceased to produce more, so she set the basin and rags aside, picking up the roll of bandages.

“How shall I wrap it?” she didn’t realize her voice had been a whisper.

“Tightly.” He responded with equal quiet, nerves present in his voice. “Round the brachium and glenohumeral joint.”

“English, please?”

“The upper arm and the shoulder.”

Softly she wound it around his upper arm, her fingers glancing across his cool skin, attempting to be as delicate as possible so as not to offend the injury any further. She tried wrapping his shoulder as well, but was met with some difficulty when she couldn’t figure out how to do so properly. Realization dawned and her face flushed. “Doctor,” she wet her suddenly dry lips, “I’m afraid I need you to remove the rest of your shirt.”

He shifted slightly beside her and paused before finally reaching up and undoing the rest of the buttons and attempting to remove his sleeve, “I’m sorry,” he admitted, “but I can’t free my right arm.” His unspoken request she met easily, and with gentle fingers she eased his right arm from the sleeve and let the shirt fall round his waist, his entire torso exposed. Clara tried to avert her curious eyes from taking in his figure, and focus instead on the task at hand, but she couldn’t help but admire the lean curve of his back, the delicate smattering of freckles against his shoulders, and his narrow chest that seemed to be equal parts muscle and ashen skin. He wasn’t toned like the workmen she’d seen, but he had a thinness to him that seemed to only permit his skeletal frame and the muscle that wound around the bone. She could see veins as pale blue as his eyes beneath his translucent skin; a reminder of his self-imposed captivity for over a decade, his skin lacking any coloring the sun would have gladly provided.

Clara rolled the strip of bandages across his chest, beneath his right arm, and back around to cross his left shoulder. The fingers of her free hand trailed across his back as they reached around to roll the gauze behind him. She repeated the motion several times until the shoulder was wrapped and she’d come to the end of the roll of gauze. “Have you something to affix it?” she asked, holding the end of the bandage where it had ended just over the left half of his chest.

“I—perhaps, in the other room, buried someplace—might have used a pin as a bookmark—”

Before he could finish stammering out a reply, Clara crouched so she was before him and pulled the silver hairpin from her hair, causing her auburn locks to tumble around her shoulders. She deftly stuck it through the bandages and pinned it in place just over his heart, and sat back to admire her work. He was looking from her to her makeshift pin with surprise.

“There.” She pronounced. 

“I—” his eyes traced over her hair that fell about her shoulders like a sable mantle. He blinked and examined her handiwork snaking around his chest, partially, she thought, as a way to avert his eyes. “Fine work.” He nodded, and moved to touch his injured shoulder thickly wrapped in gauze; the touch produced no flinch or wince. His blue eyes set back to her and he smiled. “You’re a natural.”

“Well,” she smiled back, “I had a good teacher.”

He didn’t respond, for the clock on the mantle startled both of them by pronouncing the time to be ten. Clara shot to her feet. “I’m late! Oh I am so late,”

“May I call you a coach?” he asked as he pulled half of his shirt around him with his good arm.

“No, stay there and rest, I’ll be fine.” She ordered as she picked up the basin with the rags and alcohol.

“Never mind that—I’ll take care of it, Clara, don’t trouble yourself” he insisted as she started for the door. She turned back to see him trying to rise from the settee to assist her.

“Oi! What did I say? Rest!” Clara instructed sternly as she placed the basin on a table. He fell back into the sofa.

“Yes ma’am.” As she left the room he called after her, “I can’t sit here all day, you know.”

She poked her head back into the room, “Do as you’re told!”

Clara swiftly but with reluctance left his home and started down the London street towards the Gregson estate. The streets were too thronged with foot traffic and coaches that she supposed walking would get her to her destination faster than any carriage might, despite the distance of twelve blocks.

She arrived at the Gregson estate within half an hour, nearly out of breath from the pace she set for herself, and as she walked up the path, she was stopped short when Lieutenant Pink appeared from behind a statue in the yard. “Where have you been?” he asked.

“None of your concern,” she huffed. “Why would you care?”

“I’m charged with protecting the members of this household,” he said. “That includes you. It would be helpful if in the future you told me of your comings and goings so I could better keep you safe.”

She stalked past him up the path. “I don’t feel my actions merit explanations to you or anyone.”

His hand was suddenly on her arm and she spun around to face him. He had grabbed the same part of her arm the Doctor had seized that morning when he narrowly pulled her from almost certain death. The Lieutenant’s gesture wasn’t one of protection, but of power, and she felt his fingers burn through her sleeve as she glared at him. “Miss Oswald,” he began, “other than perform my duty, I don’t understand what I’ve done to offend you.”

“Lurking behind a statue waiting for me might be an adequate place to start.”

“I wasn’t lurking—” he checked himself as his tone began to rise. He took a deep breath and continued coolly, “Just doing my rounds. I was about to turn in for the day, and here you come, dress torn, hair undone, and flushed as though you ran the span of London. I don’t feel that my alarm at seeing you or wondering where in the world you’ve been is unjustified.”

Clara’s face softened at his words. They weren’t demanding, in fact they carried concern and worry. She had entirely forgotten the state she was in, and his alarm was certainly justified. “I went to pick up medication for Teddy and post letters. I was nearly run over by a carriage on my way back.” She kept her response minimal, despite the whole morning’s events playing like a sprawling epic in her mind.

His brow furrowed at her words. “Were you hurt—are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “I’m alright. I am, however, terribly late, and need to wake the children.”

He let her go. “Might I accompany you indoors?” He added, when her face darkened slightly; “not as an escort, only we’re both headed that way.”

Clara nodded, and the two of them started up the walkway towards the large and looming manor, side by side, and yet she couldn’t deny the strange feeling of it being wrong somehow. His burly physique seemed to take up too much space beside her, his red jacket was too bright, and, most importantly, he wasn’t the Doctor.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the longest chapter yet, coming in at 10 pages! 
> 
> Thank you all so so much for your feedback and kind words. They help me gauge how I'm handling the story and characters, and how to either expand or shorten the plot in the future because of it. Reading the comments makes my day :) I appreciate them so much! Thank you for tolerating this, my first chapter fic (I'm so new to writing fanfiction it's depressing).

Clara’s first bit of business was to administer Teddy’s medicine, as prescribed by the Doctor before the morning had rather exploded into chaos. As she climbed to his room, she removed a bit of ribbon from her cuff and braided her hair, tying it at the bottom. It looked simple and inelegant, but was less haphazard than having her locks flowing about unfixed. She found Teddy in his room and sitting up in bed holding onto the volume of Hawthorne she’d been reading to him. 

“Teddy!” she exclaimed merrily. He smiled at her and set the book aside.

“And where have you been?”

Everyone was so curious that morning. She sat by him on the bed and opened her purse, revealing the small bottle of pills, which she waggled at him. “Getting something from the Doctor for your ankle. Still hurting?”

He nodded. She uncorked the bottle and drummed two small pills into her hand and handed them to him. He took them from her without hesitation, so trusting they were with one another. She leaned over to his bedside table and handed him the glass of water that was kept there during the evenings in case the young master encountered a dry throat in the night. He took one pill, then the other like a seasoned veteran, and smiled up at Clara.

“Can we go for a walk today?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You mean a roll?”

“You walk, I’ll roll.”

“I’ll push, you roll, you mean.”

“Clara don’t fuss.”

She laughed. For only five he could be awfully sassy at times. She agreed to his request and helped him dress for the day before hoisting him into his chair. Once they’d finished, she wheeled him out of the room and towards Cecily’s room, but found it to be vacant. By now it was eleven, the young lass was no doubt downstairs breakfasting with her parents.

Maneuvering Teddy down the stairs in his chair proved easier than bringing him up, but she still had to be careful so as not to lose control of him on the steps. The pair arrived in the breakfast parlour to find the three Gregsons finishing up their meal. Clara sat Teddy betwixt his mother and his sister, and went to the sideboard to fix him a plate. She was still full from the hot cross bun she’d had with the Doctor earlier that morning, which was so strange to her, for it seemed so long ago. She hoped he was managing alright, and decided she would go and check in on him as soon as her schedule allowed. 

“About time you woke up,” Mr. Gregson chided Teddy. Clara sat the plate before the young boy and saved him from responding.

“Actually, it was my fault. He complained of an ache in his ankle last night, so I woke early and went to the Doctor for something to help him. It took longer than expected, I apologize.”

“You didn’t call for the house doctor?” Gregson inquired curiously. Mrs. Gregson cut in.

“I met this doctor yesterday, he seems to be a fine gentleman. He told Clara to call on him for anything Teddy might need. I assume she didn’t want to disturb us in the night to call for the house doctor.”

Mr. Gregson nodded and his mustache wiggled profoundly. “That’s fine indeed. How do you feel, Teddy?”

The young boy looked up with half of a long piece of bacon hanging from his mouth. “Fine, papa.”

“Fine indeed.”

Clara looked down at her state of dress which, blessedly, the Gregsons hadn’t noticed her torn petticoat or dusty exterior. She decided to sneak away and change into something more presentable as the family began to converse amiably with one another.

Upon arriving in her room, she picked out a green dress with black trim and shuffled into it, as well as a fresh petticoat. Her eyes landed on the copy of Byron she’d taken from the estate library, but frowned when it wasn’t where she thought she had left it. She could have sworn she had left it in the window box, but now it sat on her vanity table beside her silver hair brush. She moved towards it and touched the old volume and frowned, thinking for a moment. Perhaps she’d moved it that morning.

When Clara arrived downstairs, freshly dressed, she announced she was taking Teddy and Cecily for a walk and then would begin their afternoon reading and writing lesson. The Gregsons obliged the idea and bid them a good morning as they set off down the garden path and into the neighborhood around them.

Cecily begged to go to her favorite park three blocks west, so they started in that direction. The morning had warmed considerably from what it had been when Clara had first started out at dawn, but the weather could still be easily classified as a crisp fall day. She’d had the foresight to bring down the children’s gloves, caps, scarves and jackets when she’d finished changing, so they’d be protected from the chill air. Teddy idly watched everything and everyone they passed like a king being transported in his royal litter as Cecily recounted everything Clara had read to her from Robin Hood the night before, to Teddy’s bemused interest.

The trio arrived at the park and found a spot warmed by the sun near the water. Clara spread out a tartan blanket for her and Cecily before Teddy, and settled there with the young girl nestled into her side, so as to begin their lesson for the day. She helped them with their journals and read a chapter from a linguistics text to their faltering interest, and concluded the day with their recitals of the poems she’d had them memorize. Cecily spoke hers beautifully, Teddy stumbled through his, and she applauded them both.

The morning had become midafternoon by this point, and she decided to return them home for dinner, choosing a round-about longer route to work off Cecily’s excess energy and to give Teddy new things to look at.

Twenty minutes into this excursion, they neared an estate not one block from their own with two police coaches out front and several officers communicating with a man who appeared to be a high ranking gentleman from Scotland Yard. In addition, there appeared to be a small crowd gathered out front, being kept at bay a close distance from the gated entrance of the manor. Teddy bid her to get closer, his interest piqued beyond quelling, and she took them nearer to the strange commotion. They came close enough to eavesdrop and mingled amongst the crowd. Clara discerned they were speaking of the robberies that had been occurring recently, and concluded this house had been the most recent attack.

“…no signs of break-in, they say.”

“How do they know if there was one in the first place?”

“Because valuables was stolen, that’s how.”

“Could’ve been a gouty servant who’s run off with their baubles.”

“The maids and footmen are all accounted for, they says.”

“Why they’s calling it a break-in if it wasn’t broken into?”

“You’re tiring me out with these barmy questions you daft old fool—because they were robbed!”

“But they’s weren’t broken into. You’re saying they were robbed from the inside out but everyone inside is still inside and no one’s wandered off. Callin’ me a daft fool when you can’t explain it your own self…”

Teddy peered up at Clara and whispered so as not to be heard by the arguing bystanders growing crosser with one another by the minute, “How did they do it?”

Cecily responded with a condescending tone (she was the older sister, after all, and naturally knew better), “Robbers are professionals, Theodore. They can make it look like they were never there.”

“If they made it look like they were never there they’d have to not have stolen anything.” 

Clara let the two little Gregsons trade arguments as she listened closer as the gentleman from Scotland Yard questioned a shaken maid who was just brought before him.

“You confirm the footman’s story?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are the one who locks up the kitchen in the evenings?”

“Yes, sir. And I couldn’t have forgotten last night, sir, I do it every night like a habit.”

“And upon waking you found no signs of distress to the household?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“No broken glass, no picked locks.”

“No, sir. Everything was perfectly in order, only all the doors were unlocked from the inside.”

“Is it possible you forgot to lock the kitchen door last night?”

“As I said, sir, I couldn’t have forgotten. I remember because I was waiting for the water in the kettle to boil for my tea when I went and locked it tight.”

Clara had to stop eavesdropping for Teddy was now trying to hit Cecily from the confines of his wheelchair, and Cecily was dodging him and taunting him with a red tongue sticking out between her lips. She pulled them apart and scolded them before marching them homewards once more, her mind playing over all that she had just heard. A slight chill ran up her spine at the close proximity of the latest manor that was robbed to the Gregson estate. It seemed each day the robberies were growing closer. The idea of some person sneaking into the house undetected by unknown means like some sort of ghost and sneaking out with all their valuables caused her heart to flutter with mild anxiety. Now that she had seen and heard of the robberies with her own senses, she for the first time felt grateful to have a soldier like Lieutenant Pink guarding them at night when the attacks occurred.

She set the children in the parlour for their dinner hour and was about to join them in their meal when she saw Lieutenant Pink himself stand in the doorway and beckon her near. She advised the butler to preside over the children’s meal and went to the soldier more out of curiosity than anything. He retreated so they were in the entrance hall and removed from the parlour.

“Yes, Lieutenant Pink?”

“I apologize for disturbing you, Miss Oswald.”

“Did you sleep well?”

He smiled, “I did, thank you. A few hours is all I need.”

“Good.”

This polite conversation was her subtle way of making amends for her curtness with him in the past, and he seemed to accept it.

“I actually had an inquiry for you and your duties as a Governess.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. She hadn’t expected that. “Yes?”

“Part of my job here is to patrol the interior and exterior of the estate,” he paused momentarily to watch her face. His duty at the estate had been a source of friction between them in the past. Her face remained still, and as her tempered wasn’t riled in the slightest as it would have done only that morning, he continued, “The children’s rooms especially I put considerable care into inspecting on my rounds, you understand. I saw in young Theodore’s room an open arithmetic journal on his desk. I wasn’t poking my nose where it wasn’t supposed to be,” he added quickly, his tone becoming a bit nervous, “but I couldn’t help but notice a number of equations were wrong.”

“He’s only five years old, Lieutenant Pink, he’s bound to make mistakes.”

“Yes,” his eyes became very interested in his shoes. “But the equations he had wrong were corrected by you….and they were wrong corrections.”

Clara felt her face grow hot as realization of his critique dawned on her. “I must have erred. I’m not perfect.”

“I can’t help but notice you seem more inclined and learned in literature and writing, and, if I might be so bold as to suggest that your weakness seems to be in arithmetic. I mean no insult by it, only, I happen to be very good at the latter, which makes up for my paltry understanding of the former.” He paused for a moment and rubbed his neck, “Perhaps, if you thought it reasonable, I might help out with the children’s studies while I’m here? Only if you didn’t want to be troubled with teaching them maths. It would give you a break from teaching them all the time, for an hour or two a day, at any rate—and I wouldn’t mind; I’ve grown rather fond of them in the short time I’ve been here.”

Clara blinked. His tone was equal parts apologetic and hopeful, as though he chose his words with the utmost care, cautiously maneuvering them like someone stepping round eggshells. He was perceptive, that much was certain. Clara loathed arithmetic, and had no love for it whatsoever; in fact thinking of it often filled her with mild loathing. Being told her skills in the subject were dismal by a soldier, and almost a complete stranger, riled her a bit, but she chided herself for feeling thusly, when his offer to help teach Cecily and Teddy was kind and appeared purely altruistic. “Well,” she said after a moment, finally closing her mouth, which had been hanging open slightly.

“Please,” he implored, “pay me no mind if you’d care not to accept the offer, and ignore this conversation entirely. I’ve overstepped my position, and I had no right. I apologize, Miss Oswald.”

“Not so fast,” she halted his self-deprecation. “I never rejected your offer, I’ve only been thinking on it. While I can’t fathom you finding the time to teach the children with your current regimen, if you found the time to help them learn, I think it would be greatly appreciated by them, and myself. I make no claims to excel in the subject, and would rather the children learn properly than cling to my own stubborn pride.”

He seemed to brighten at her words, and his face lit up in a smile. “Thank you, Miss Oswald.”

“Thank me?” she repeated, eyebrows raised and a slight smile on her own lips. “You’re the one giving yourself more work.”

“If I can alleviate you of any burden, I gladly will.” 

Clara felt her face flush at his words that seemed to go deeper than the surface subject of which they spoke. “You may start with them tomorrow, if you’d like.” She said, dislodging the half-smirk of his that he seemed so keen to flash at her. He nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant Pink.”

“Please,” he added as she turned to reenter the parlour, “You may call me as Daniel, if it suits you.”

She held his gaze for a moment. “I think Lieutenant Pink suits you just fine.”

Clara was unable to break away from the children for the rest of the day, more out of guilt for not being present when they woke, so she didn’t go to see the Doctor. She was up late reading Byron in the window seat by candle flame, and couldn’t help but notice the Lieutenant striding across the grounds and circling the estate, casting the occasional innocent glance up to her window. 

 

The next day, after the children had breakfasted and finished their morning literature lessons, and once Lieutenant Pink had risen, she let him take charge of them for their first arithmetic lesson with him. She felt a bit nervous for leaving them alone with him for this intimate engagement of learning she alone had occupied for the last month, but the Doctor’s condition pulled more strongly on her than her will to oversee the lesson. 

She walked, wanting to save on cab fare, and arrived before his door half an hour from when she left the estate. Clara knocked four times, and after waiting a while to no response, she knocked again. Worry was just about to set into her bones when finally the door was flung open. Instead of greeting her as he always had, he had merely thrown the door open and had already begun retreating back into the house, preoccupied with something she couldn’t begin to fathom. Before she could enter and close the door behind her, he had already disappeared into one of the many rooms lining the narrow hall.

“Doctor?” she called hesitantly.

“Fourth on the right.” His distant muffled voice responded. She went to the room he specified and found it to be a music room, the only distinction being that of an old grand piano in the center of it currently serving as a desk of sorts atop which several dozen newspapers were spread out. “Eleven,” he announced, gesturing with his uninjured arm over the splayed papers.

Clara stared at him dumbly. “Eleven?”

“Robberies.”

“Robberies?”

“Clara have you an ear infection? Yes, robberies.”

“Doctor, did you sleep last night?”

He hummed curiously and frowned up at her, allowing her to see him front-on for the first time since she’d entered. He had circles beneath his bright eyes, and his hair was rumpled like the first time she met him. She saw his fingertips were stained grey and black from newspaper ink. Her eyes went to his left arm and shoulder, as it was where the injury had been, but it was hard to ascertain, as he wore rich deep blue shirt which hid the bandages. Only the right suspender was hooked over his shoulder, however, the left one dangled off around his thigh, the only sign of his injury hurting him. “Sleep? Why? Did you sleep?”

She decided to change tact, approaching the piano and looking down at all the newspapers he’d collected. They were all turned to pages pertaining the robberies happening all over London. Clara looked back up at him. “Eleven robberies?”

“Ten plus one.”

“I know what eleven means.” She said rather more defensively than she ought to have done, thinking about recent events regarding her math skills or lack thereof. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. But look!” he plucked one paper out from the pile and held it out for her to read. 

She scanned the page. “An account of the robbery.”

“The first one, it’s very important. Are you reading it?”

“I am, but what am I looking for?”

“What does it say about what was stolen?”

Clara took the page from him and read closer. “Silver and trinkets. Dinnerware.” She shrugged, “Thieves must have had company coming by for supper or some such.”

He placed another paper in her hands atop the one she held. “And this one, the second one.”

She peered at the page, “Silver.”

Before she’d finished, he’d placed a third paper which she scanned and found the valuables stolen to once again be silver. She placed them down on the piano and sent him a curious look. “What are you getting at?”

“All of them,” he waved his hand over the multiple newspapers covering the piano. “Nothing but silver. Every single case. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

She frowned. “Why wouldn’t they take gold or diamonds or something else? Breaking into all those rich mansions and taking only silver seems rather silly.”

He held up a finger. “You said what all of these papers say.”

“What, silly?”

“Breaking in.”

Clara paused, remembering what she’d overheard at the robbed estate only yesterday. “They weren’t broken into, only broken out of.”

He snapped his fingers and his face cracked into a grin. “Precisely!”

“I don’t understand.”

“No one does! That’s the beauty of it!”

“Doctor,” she crossed her arms, “I came here to check up on you and here you are thoroughly absorbed in these headlines. What’s happened?”

He had turned back to sift through the papers absently. “What do you mean what’s happened?”

“Why the sudden interest in these cases? What can you hope to solve that Scotland Yard can’t?”

The Doctor scanned a page without looking up to respond, “The one yesterday was different.”

“Different how?”

“Closer.”

She was about to respond that it had been no nearer to his house than any of the others, but stopped abruptly. The robbery yesterday had been less than a block from the Gregson estate, her current home. Surely he hadn’t meant closer to her?....Her mind was suddenly accosted with the terrible memory of yesterday when he had leapt into action upon seeing her in danger. By saving her, he’d put himself in harm’s way and nearly got himself killed, all for protecting her. She watched him with new eyes, his brow furrowing as he read some minute detail in the newspaper he’d currently fixed his gaze upon. Why had he done it? Why had he saved her so valiantly when the act of doing so was clearly fraught with injury and near death? Adrenaline could be a possible excuse, but he was an intelligent man who she felt wasn’t necessarily affected by such strong and mindless chemical reactions. And now his sudden interest in the robberies as they entered her neighborhood seemed to make sense.

“Doctor,” she breathed quietly, “I—”

She was cut short as he suddenly held up a hand, his gaze staring hard at the edge of the piano where a newspaper fluttered slightly in a draft. He held up his hand in silence for a long moment, staring at the newspaper. He must have had excellent vision to read it so far from him. His hand lowered and he turned to her, his face having instantly lost its stern stare and looked at her openly and with a smile. “My shoulder is fine, thank you. I appreciate your help yesterday. All of this,” he gestured nonchalantly to the papers scattered before him, “just caught my interest for lack of anything to do. Forgive me. How’s Teddy?”

She felt as though she were experiencing whiplash from his shifts in mood. What was going on? “He’s doing much better; the pills you gave him seem to be working and he’s—”

“Glad to hear it. I’m sorry you can’t stay longer, I’ll see you out.” He said quickly and started for the hall. 

“I never said I had to leave—”

“Nonsense, it’ll be nearly suppertime when you return. Off you get.”

She followed him down the hall and no sooner had he bid her a swift goodbye did she find herself outside on the steps staring at his closed door, questions mounting within her at his strange behavior that seemed odd even for him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kind words and reactions!

Clara returned to the Gregson estate feeling uncertain about a multitude of things. She couldn’t shake the strange creeping feeling that had come from seeing the Doctor behave so strangely, as though something were desperately wrong and he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell her. The past few days were a testament to him feeling protective of her, and if something were dangerous he would no doubt keep it from her in some chivalrous act of shelter. Of course, this train of thought only caused her to tumble down other avenues of questions—why had he saved her? Or, more to the point, why had he risked his life to save hers? He was a doctor who had told her he’d grown tired of saving people and had turned his back on the practice. He became a victim of his own mind and actions, unable to discern between himself and his patients. The mystery that was the unnamed Doctor was at first a curiosity, but now his identity seemed to fill her with mild dread and anxiety. There were too many unknowns. And his behavior today only added to her insecurities.

She arrived at the estate and found Cecily and Teddy with Lieutenant Pink in the library finishing up their arithmetic lesson. When she entered, all three looked up.

“Clara!” Teddy exclaimed, “Did you know Lieutenant Pink fought in an actual war?”

“I had no idea,” Clara returned as she sat on a plush chair near the trio sitting round a table, maths books spread out before them. “I thought you were teaching them arithmetic, not regaling them with war stories.”

Lieutenant Pink’s face colored slightly and he dropped his gaze to the table, “I was, but he asked.”

“Well,” Clara smiled to the young children. “Did you enjoy your lesson? Learn a lot?”

Cecily nodded eagerly. “Lots and lots!”

“Good. What do you say we run outside to play before supper while the sun’s up?”

The children agreed excitedly. Lieutenant Pink was faster than Clara, for he took up position behind Teddy’s wheelchair and waited for Clara to lead. She took Cecily’s hand and the group started for the estate grounds and gardens behind the mansion. Once they had reached the outdoors, Cecily broke away and ran for her favorite spot near the flowerbeds to check on her favorite flowers. Clara started towards her to keep an eye on the small girl, and found Lieutenant Pink walking beside her, pushing Teddy’s chair. The two were quiet until Teddy requested he be let alone by a small pond to look at fish. Clara and the Lieutenant retreated to give the children free space to roam and play.

“Were they a handful?” she asked after a time as the two walked slowly across the grounds.

“Teddy, only when he started asking me questions about being a soldier.” He responded sheepishly. “But they are apt students, you’ve raised them well.”

“I’ve only been here a month, don’t know how much raising I’ve done.”

He looked surprised. “Just a month? And here I thought you were a permanent fixture.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m unsure whether to thank you or feel put out.”

“I only meant that you fit in so well; the children love you, the Gregsons respect you, and you seem comfortable here.” He adjusted.

A sad smile drifted across her lips. “Comfortable.” She repeated after a short time, tasting the word.

“Is that not a good thing?”

“I’m not sure.” She said, watching a bird break free from a tree and fly up into the cloudy sky. “I don’t think being comfortable in an occupation, especially so early in life, is good for anyone.”

“How did you come to work for the Gregsons, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She sighed and gave him the short version. His questions lengthened her response, until he knew most everything. He nodded solemnly at her decisions, his brow furrowed in concern when she spoke of her life before the Gregsons, and he smiled when she’d concluded. “Being a Governess wasn’t something I aspired to, it just happened.”

“Perhaps comfortable is the wrong word, then.” He thought for a moment. “Are you happy here?”

She looked up at him and searched his face. She wasn’t unhappy, but there was something missing. She was bored. She wanted to do something bigger with her life, but all avenues seemed closed to her. She was tired of living with no goals, or hope. She hated waking up knowing each day was going to be the same. She was unlit gunpowder awaiting a spark that never came. She was a dry riverbed in a draught; without purpose and empty. She couldn’t tell him any of this, despite the words clawing up her throat. “I’m not unhappy.” 

They walked quietly side by side for a time. “What about you?” she asked as they passed beneath a willow, “Have you any aspirations other than being a soldier?”

“I’d like to rise in the ranks, certainly. I’d like to be a captain, then perhaps a general, like my father, and his father. This line of work is in my blood.”

“And it’s what you want?”

He looked at her, “More than anything. The honor, the glory, saving people, fighting for something—it’s all rewarding.”

“What about killing people?” she blurted out before she could stop herself, and bit her tongue, her face growing hot. The two of them stopped walking. She peered up at him to see his face stony and cold.

“That’s…” his voice trailed away, his eyes seemed to be seeing something unseen. Memories, perhaps.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t thinking, I apologize. I know it goes with the territory, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She stammered out, utterly embarrassed.

He shook his head and softly replied, “It’s alright, Miss Oswald.” 

The two of them made their way back to the children. Cecily was poking with a long stick into the mud of the pond and Teddy was goading her on eagerly.

“So, captain, then?” she asked as an excuse to cover the awkward conversation that seemed to linger around them.

He brightened a bit. “Hopefully by next year. And a few years after that, General Pink.”

“Sounds so formal.”

“More formal than Lieutenant Pink?”

She smiled as she watched the children play. “I wish you all the luck in the world. It must be so nice to have your life mapped out in such a way.”

“Structure is important.” He agreed.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed without event, other than Bonnie hinting without subtly that she’d seen Clara and Lieutenant Pink walking across the grounds, and the two of them looked like a picture. The next few days were spent secretly conspiring with the cook and Mrs. Gregson as to Teddy’s sixth birthday party, which was turning into a rather lavish affair. Mr. Gregson had stalwartly turned the event into a dual birthday party and business party for his banking members, despite Clara’s protestations that their presence would take away from Teddy’s day. 

Her days were so full up she barely had a chance to think about the Doctor, which was good, for it gave her time to reflect and distance herself from the unsettled feelings that were aroused when his personage drifted through her mind. She hoped his arm was healing, and he wasn’t exerting himself too terribly.

She did manage to sneak away for an hour to buy Teddy a present, when the children were absorbed in Lieutenant Pink’s arithmetic lesson one day. She went to her favorite bookstore only a few minutes from the estate, and found a book of collected stories by Hawthorne he hadn’t read. She also found a copy of works of the American writer, Edgar Allan Poe, and although she was only familiar with one or two of his tales, she thought he and Hawthorne were similar enough that Teddy would appreciate him. She carried the books back to the estate, but was waylaid by the maid who worked at the estate neighboring the Gregsons. She always liked whatever company she could glean from Hattie, as the two had much in common having come from similar backgrounds. The maid and Clara spent a happy couple of minutes talking about Teddy’s coming birthday party, before Hattie brought up the robberies.

“Aren’t they just awful?” Hattie commiserated, “I don’t feel safe anymore.”

“No one’s been hurt, Hattie,” Clara reminded with a shrug. “Only a few rich folks aren’t as rich”

“Yes, but I can’t stop thinking about it. The circumstances of the robberies…makes me think of ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Clara laughed, “Hattie, do you perhaps need a lie-down?”

Hattie huffed. “You come up with a better idea, then!”

The two parted amiably when the conversation turned to pleasanter subjects. 

The day before Teddy’s party passed simply enough, Clara spending much of the day getting Teddy wound up and wonderfully excited for his birthday the next day and keeping him out of the ballroom where the decorations were being festooned. The act proved to be rather difficult, as Teddy had figured out how to wheel himself about, so if she left him alone for even a minute, she’d find him halfway across the estate. 

When she finally tucked the children into bed, Clara turned in herself for the night, wanting to be rested for the party tomorrow evening and the chaos that would no doubt ensue from the morning and day as last minute preparations were made. She couldn’t resist reading a few more poems from the Byron tome she kept by her bed before she finally drifted off to sleep.

Sometime during the night (she’d no idea what time it was, as the clock was too far away in the dark room), she awoke, for what reason she knew not. Most always she slept soundly through the night if nothing external disturbed her, so she found it strange to be awake. Her eyes blinked through the gloom, adjusting to the sheer ribbons of moonlight drifting through the window like spider webs. Her first thought upon waking was that one of the children had entered her room, as they had done in the past, prompted from a nightmare, but she couldn’t make out either of their white nightgowned forms through the darkness; in fact her door was still shut. Her brain, still in a muddled state from waking from a deep sleep, reminded her that Teddy was in a wheelchair, and couldn’t come to her in the night. A chill was in the air, which wasn’t unusual for this time of night, but it sent a violent shiver up her spine, and she pulled the thick down quilt around her tightly. Sleep did not wrap itself around her as easily again. Her eyes remained open. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had woken her up, something other than her own mind.

Clara moved to sit up in bed, the coverlet clutched to her chest, and she listened. Dead silence. Not a living soul moved. Even the estate itself, an old building which would creak and groan as it settled at night, remained utterly quiet. Clara willed her pulse to still in her veins so her ears could listen past the thump-thump-thump that echoed in her ears. 

As her eyes gleaned more light within the darkness, her room seemed off, somehow. Everything appeared to be in the proper place, and she assured herself it was simply because she was looking at everything painted black by the night that made it appear changed and different. But it was strange. It was unfamiliar. And she’d no idea why. Fear began to creep through her veins like jumping spiders. The stillness was too quiet, and the quiet was too dark. 

A terrifying thought tingled the hairs on the back of her neck. She wasn’t alone. That whoever was in the room with her was holding its breath, as she was, listening. Whoever was in her room was lurking just beyond the periphery of her vision. The idea made her pulse start to pound and her body tremble. She began to think of every horror story she’d ever heard or read, every monster her brain had conceived suddenly took shape in the shadows. When she blinked, her imagination deserted her, and the shadows were empty.

She tried convincing herself that she was alone, that she was startled at being woken up by nothing and was assigning her fears to the imaginary. She tried telling herself how foolish she was for being afraid. She told herself to lie back down and shut her eyes, but the idea seemed to equate to death itself, as though if she were to lie down and close her eyes, she would be at her most vulnerable. So she sat, unmoving, scarcely breathing, staring into the dark recesses of her room, for how long she knew not. What if she was afraid for a reason? What if her subconscious had made her wake with a start out of self-preservation? What if it wasn’t fear of the unknown she was truly feeling, but pure rational thought? What if her instincts were telling her to run and hide out of survival rather than childlike terror of the dark?

A dull thump. 

Clara’s heartbeat excelled to the point of near bursting as her line of vision flicked to the source of the noise; her vanity table. She watched as her silver hairbrush atop it glimmered as it rattled back and forth on the table where someone, or something, had bumped into it. Her eyes grew wide when, for a fraction of a second, she could have sworn on anything she saw a figure standing beside it. Before she could ascertain it being there, it was gone, and Clara doubted she had seen anything at all. The thought terrified her. Her mind screamed for her body to move, to react, to do something, but her limbs were frozen and shaking, as though she’d lost all control over her ability to control her nerves and muscle. Her very bones seemed to clatter together.

A slight sound, like a thin stream of air echoing in an empty chimney; hollow, aching, and cold. She felt every hair on her skin stand on end. Her eyes fixed at the spot where she thought she’d seen some figure against the moonlight. She didn’t remember the last time she’d drawn a breath.

When Clara recalled that night the following day, she thought it was all a dream. The human mind will often seek refuge in deceptions when realities prove too horrific.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I think of the concept for a story, it usually comes to me from a single scene I imagine, and the story grows from there. For Physicians and Phonographs, a scene that transpires in this chapter is the one that inspired me to write this story. It's been weighing on me since I started writing it, and it feels cathartic to finally pen it out here, but, as always, one never feels they can do it justice. I hope I did.
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind comments! I appreciate them beyond anything I can say. Enjoy.

The next day, Hattie was found to be disemboweled in the cellar after the mansion was robbed. The entire Gregson household, as well as all of London, was shaken to its core. There were no signs of skin fissures or attack on the young maid’s body; her organs had been found beside her concave body as though they had slithered out of their own accord. The shock of it rendered Clara in a state of utter trauma. She grieved tremendously, but had to struggle to keep her state of immovable distraught hidden from the children, especially as Teddy’s birthday loomed that very evening. The circumstances of Hattie’s death haunted her every waking moment, and her face grew weary of wearing a smiling mask, but she had no choice.

Lieutenant Pink redoubled his efforts in protecting the Gregsons, now that the most recent and gruesome attack had happened in the very next house. He prowled through every room, secured every door and window, and acted as sentry around the clock. His presence set many of their restless minds at ease, for the time being. Clara hadn’t the time to speak to him at all that day, running about as she was helping prepare for the party. The prior night’s proceedings within her bedchamber had scarcely crossed her mind, overshadowed by the horrific demise of Hattie, and the coming day’s event.

To top off the misery that Clara felt in her very bones, the day proved to be a ghastly one. Thunderstorms shook the estate and rolled across the grey gardens causing the windows to weep and the air to carry a sickly humidity. The storm raged all throughout the day and into the evening when the party was to begin. Lightning cracked through the sky like sparks, and peals of thunder roared intermittently overhead.

Clara changed into the dress the Gregsons had let her buy for the occasion. A rich red satin gown with a plummeting neckline that met in the middle of her breastbone, revealing her collarbones, and much of the top of her chest. It was modest by most lady’s dress standards, but was a bit exposing for her own tastes. She swept her chestnut hair into a magnificent up-do that the occasion warranted, and wore black gloves that stretched all the way to the middle of her upper arms. When she had finished and looked in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Never had she worn something so beautiful; her station and life had never permitted her to afford to look like a lady. Something in her felt intensely morose, despite the elegance that stared back at her in the mirror. 

The party was just beginning. She went to Teddy’s room to fetch him, where, after refusing her help to be dressed (he was six now, he insisted, and almost a man), he was awaiting her to take him to his party. She knocked lightly on his door, and entered when she heard his voice within. A warm smile spread across her face at seeing him. He looked like a prince. Earlier that day, she and Cecily had decorated the wheels of his chair by threading the spokes with white ribbon and laced flowers. He sat there in a handsome suit, a rose in his boutonnière they’d acquired from a nearby hothouse. His hair was combed to one side, his cheeks were flushed with excitement, and a small bowtie rested on his collar. “Teddy!” she exclaimed. “You look wonderful!”

He grinned sheepishly. “Thank you, Clara. If you don’t mind my saying so, you look very pretty tonight.”

She smiled at the young boy’s timid compliment. “It’s not every day I get to dress up like this. Are you ready to meet your public?”

“I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. Everyone down there is your friend.”

“That’s why I’m nervous.”

Clara crouched beside his chair and looked up at him. “What for?”

He squirmed. “What if I make a fool out of myself? What if they stop liking me?”

She clasped his hand in hers. “Teddy that could never happen. You are the kindest, bravest, smartest young boy I’ve ever met. They’re all tripping over themselves down there to hang about you tonight.”

“Really?”

“Really. Even if you shoved cake in their faces they’d love you.”

He giggled. “Don’t be daft.”

She rose and moved behind him to push him from the room. “I’m absolutely serious! Go shove one of their faces in the cake tonight if you don’t believe me.”

“I shan’t.”

“If you don’t, I will.”

“Clara, behave!”

They made their way down the hall and, much to her surprise, they found Mr. Gregson waiting for them at the top of the staircase. He looked fine indeed in his slick suit and oiled hair. Gregson turned on their approach and smiled at his son. “Well, m’boy, this is your day. Clara, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take him in myself.”

Clara tried to conceal the overwhelming happiness that surged through her in that moment. She relinquished Teddy to his father, and watched as the pair started down the stairs slowly, Gregson managing with the wheelchair. She blinked back tears at the sight. Never had she seen father and son like that. Perhaps there was hope for them after all.

She waited a while for them to get to the bottom of the stairs and proceed to the ballroom, not wanting to push in on such an intimate bonding moment. She went through the list of names that had responded to the invitations—almost all of the nearly forty families responded in the affirmative. Then of course there were the men and wives who worked for Mr. Gregson at the bank, and who knew how many of them were coming. She suddenly felt a small flutter of nerves at the prospect of being in a room with so many people. She was shy and preferred to keep to herself if she could help it. Luckily, she wouldn’t be needed so much, as everyone would be fawning over Teddy. She could hide in a corner and no one would notice.

Clara took a deep breath and started down the carpeted stairs, holding the satin of her gown so it wouldn’t trip her up. The fabric sounded so strange as it dragged lightly across the marbled floor of the hall—like all of the ladies whenever they moved about. It was peculiar to associate the sound with her own steps. Clara didn’t have long to think on it, for the dull roar coming from the ballroom sent a thrill down to her stomach. It sounded as though she’d entirely underestimated the amount of guests. She exhaled shakily as her nerves started acting up again. She felt like a sheep in wolf’s clothing that night. She was no lady, but she would have to act the part to fit in with the multitude of high class individuals perpetuating the ballroom.

She rounded the corner and gasped as the ballroom revealed itself to her fully. Despite having helped decorate part of it, it looked entirely different filled with so many elegant persons, all cast in orange and yellow light from the dozens of chandeliers stretching across the globular ceiling, and the fluttering candelabras lining the walls. The room was a cacophony of talking, laughing, clattering cutlery, and sweeping music from a small orchestra that filled every inch of the massive space and floated through the hall. The colors dazzled her eyes; beautiful dresses of every fabric, style, and shade cascaded amid the throng; ribbon and streamers festooned every wall and hung in elegant spirals form the high ceiling; diamonds and jewels flashed every place she looked in the bright candlelight. Clara felt her pulse pound in her ears, she took a deep breath, and entered the ballroom.

She attempted to remain along the wall so as to avoid the throng of people populating the room, but the task proved difficult, and before she knew it, she found herself tossed like a branch in a river in towards the center of the room. Her eyes found Teddy surrounded by well-wishers, his proud father standing beside him looking entirely too pleased with himself. She felt herself bumped by a passing couple moving towards the dance floor, and apologized stupidly to their deaf ears after they’d wafted past. She felt her face grow hot at how poorly she fit in with these people with sharp faces and heavy eyelids. She also had become brutally aware at how made up the other women looked; blushed cheeks and red lips and black lined eyes with huge eyelashes that seemed as though they wanted to break away from their faces and take flight. Clara’s make up-less face was just another testament to her awkward place there that night. Her dress began to feel uncomfortable, like a second skin that didn’t belong to her.

“Clarissa!” Bonnie’s shrill voice cut through the loudness of her thoughts and the room about her. She turned to see lady Gregson make her way towards her in a stunning green dress with mustard velvet trim. The older woman came near enough and seized Clara’s arm to hold on to. “There you are, I’ve been searching for you!”

“You look lovely, Mrs. Gregson.”

“As do you, my dear,” she sent her wicked smile, “Which is just fine, because I’ve invited someone just for you.”

Clara’s face warmed nervously. “For me?”

“I thought you two might enjoy each other’s company,” before she finished her sentence, her eyes caught someone just over Clara’s shoulder, “BERNICE!” she shrieked excitedly and left Clara to go greet whomever had thrilled her so. Clara puzzled over her words. Who could she have meant? And why had she kept it a secret? Her eyes started scanning the crowd for someone she might know, but she couldn’t see anyone from her current vantage point surrounded by people. She made an effort to get to the side of the room once more and free herself from the throng of people to better survey the crowd. After several minutes, she succeeded, and found herself unfettered from the tightly packed throng and near a wall by one of the roaring fireplaces, where she resumed her scrutiny of faces. Her eyes fell the form of the Doctor by one of the sideboards laden with food lining the opposite wall, and she couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her lips. She circled swiftly around the room until she was by his side to find him examining a silver fork.

“Doctor—”

“Clara,” he greeted, “You look very red today.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks…?”

He put the fork down and turned to face her with a smile. He looked rather handsome, she couldn’t help but admit, standing there in a black suit and starched shirt, his hair looking decent for once, and he even wore a smart tie.

“What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, very nice.” He groused sarcastically.

“I didn’t mean it like that—Mrs. Gregson was very kind to invite you. I’m happy to see you.” She felt her face flush as she spoke and bit her lip. Why had Bonnie invited the Doctor to keep her company? What was she getting at?

“Yes,” he responded slowly, and his eyes wandered over the room. “Quite the affair for young Teddy.”

“A boy only turns six once.”

“And how is he?”

“Quite well. His ankle hasn’t bothered him for several days now.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“Doctor,” she was cut off as the two of them were bumped by a passing group, whom he glared at as though they were all convicted felons. “How are you?”

“My arm is healing splendidly.”

“I meant you. Here. With all these people.”

“I’m fine.” He said as his left eye twitched slightly. Or perhaps it was just a shadow from a candle.

“I only meant because you’ve been isolated for years, this sort of engagement with so many people might be a bit much. I appreciate you coming here for me, but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

He blinked at her as his eyebrows furrowed. “For you?”

She faltered, “Oh, I only thought—”

The two of them were bumped into by another couple. He snapped in irritation, “This is growing tiring. Would you care to dance?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Dance?”

“The dance floor is less crowded, we might have a decent conversation there if we’re poncing about with the rest of them.”

She could only nod. He offered her his arm and she took it without thinking. The two of them started for the dance floor, maneuvering deftly through the crowd. The roar of conversation gave way to the swell of the music, and when they were on the dance floor, almost all of the talking had been muffled by the orchestra. He released her from his arm and the two of them stared at each other awkwardly for a moment as they stood on the floor.

“Clara, although I suspect you may have guessed, I’m a rather rusty at this sort of thing.”

“Speak for yourself,” she interjected, “I’ve never done this before in my life.”

That seemed to make him feel better, knowing he wasn’t the only one about to make a fool of himself, and he held up one hand, which she took, and pulled her closer until his other hand was balancing lightly on her waist. She knew from watching the others to put her other hand on his shoulder. They looked at each other for a moment, their faces so close she might have counted the flecks of grey in his eyes. Suddenly, he started stepping and drifting her along to the music, and the two of them swept across the dance floor. She found it very rhythmic, and soon she was able to keep up without thinking, letting him guide her through the steps. They looked at each other as the music surrounded them and Clara learned to stop staring at their feet to keep time. His eyes were like oceans. Green and blue dancing in the orange candlelight. His salt-and-pepper hair, in such close proximity, rippled in elegant short curls. Her fingers resting on his shoulder absently toyed with the seam of his jacket.

She’d danced with other men in her youth, but not in this elegant fashion. Festival parties with heart-throbs of her younger days, much hitching up of the skirt and spinning about came readily to mind when she thought of dancing. Never had she held a gentleman so close to her and moved in a dance with synchronized steps that made her feel like some leaf being tossed and turned in the air by the will of the delicate wind. Despite the formality of the dance, it felt impossibly intimate. Their hold on one another felt so tender; his hand on her waist held her to him, but lightly, as though he were afraid if he held her tighter she might shatter. Their hands clasped in the air and hers fit so wonderfully in his, spindly pale fingers covering hers entirely, and some part of her wished she weren’t wearing gloves at all. The thought colored her face.

She bit her lip. “I take it you’ve been to these sorts of engagements before? Fancy dressed up gentlemen and ladies poncing about?”

He watched her curiously. “In my time.”

“And you gave them all up?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” her question was double-sided. Why had he given them up, and why had he returned to them tonight. He seemed to pick up on her meaning, for he paused before he answered. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and his dark gaze scanned the crowd. 

“Circumstances led me to do so.”

Interesting response. It could potentially answer both of her questions. She couldn’t think of a follow-up question before he could speak again.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” he said, his voice soft between them, his eyes returned to hers, holding her gaze. “The other day when you came around.”

She felt like a pigeon being scrutinized by a hawk; those eyebrows were intimidating even when his tone was kind. Clara stammered out, “I admit I was startled by your behavior.”

“I apologize. The last thing I ever wish to do is frighten you.”

Her eyes found his hand holding her gloved hand aloft, and she could see faint traces of newspaper ink on his fingertips, which triggered all the confusion and emotions she’d felt several days ago when she’d been thrown so unceremoniously from his house by the unusual way he was acting. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Why all the mystery? What aren’t you telling me?”

He seemed taken aback by her sudden flurry of questions. “Sorry?”

“What do you know?”

His lips quirked into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Everything’s fine, Clara.”

“Everything is not fine.” She insisted, her temper rising. “My friend was murdered, and I can’t help but feel that you’re hiding something from me.”

“Clara—” his tone was like a parent laughing at a child’s logic, and she immediately took affront and broke away from his hold on her. His face faltered and he stared at her wondering what he’d done wrong, his hands hovering in midair where they once held her. The other couples danced around them oblivious to their sudden conflict. The music swelled.

“Keep up this mysterious act all you like,” she said, and couldn’t stop her voice from trembling or her eyes from sparkling as tears pricked their corners. She was thinking of Hattie’s death and was becoming overwhelmed. “But don’t treat me like a child. You don’t have the right. And you’re scaring me.”

“Clara,” he stepped closer so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. He eyed the room nervously before he set his gaze on her, and his face was serious. “You must believe that it was never my intent to make you feel that way.”

“To hell with intent, all I know is how I feel.” She had to turn her eyes from him as she felt tears well up, and she blinked them away. She was hurt. By him. She felt betrayed somehow, and the feeling confused her, because betrayal was a strong emotion that came from losing trust in someone a person cared for. The feelings were perhaps in part because she’d felt as though she had bared her soul to him. Talks before the fireplace about things that made her heart soar and her passions combust. She felt that he, too, had revealed things about himself to her that he hadn’t told anyone else. He’d given up being a hermit to help her, had he not? He’d been forced to remove his shirt before her, and she’d cleaned his wounds and patched him up. Their quick closeness and familiarity with one another was being besmirched by him concealing information from her. And it hurt.

“Clara, please.” His voice was edging on desperate, so despairing he’d become when he’d seen how affected she was, and he reached out to touch her, but stopped himself. His fingers lingered in the air, like birds without purpose frozen mid-flight. His face looked pained. “I won’t make excuses for my behavior, only I’ve been shut up for so long I’ve lost sight of what’s important. You deserve answers, and I promise I’ll give them to you.” His eyes watched something just over her left shoulder, then flicked back to her. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, but things are complicated.” His eyes once again found something just beyond her left shoulder and stayed there as he continued, his face turned ashen, his words quick, “Information is dangerous right now to those who have it. I can only ask for your trust, although I am unworthy of it.”

She scoffed. “So this is you protecting me?”

His eyes swiveled back to hers and held them. “Yes.” Suddenly he had closed the gap between them and she was craning her neck to look up into his eyes. “Clara, whatever you do, whatever you hear or think you hear: Don’t look.”

Before she could process what he’d said or made heads or tails of his heavy confusing warning, just then she was shoved violently aside by some strong force. Clara stumbled and recovered just in time to see Lieutenant Pink, a blur of red uniform, hurl a massive punch directly at the Doctor’s face. A sickening crack rose above the dull roar in the hall, and the Doctor was sent crashing to the floor. Clara heard a scream and covered her mouth in shock. The Doctor’s hands hit the marble with a smack, this time very audible as the sounds in the ballroom had died away to a hushed murmur. Lieutenant Pink’s face was livid, his hands balled into white knuckles, and he took a menacing step towards the Doctor’s fallen form as if he were about to strike again. The Doctor twisted on the ground so his back was against the floor so he could better see the soldier. Blood dribbled down his mouth, his eyes were like fire as he glared up at his attacker.

Clara launched herself between the two men before the Lieutenant could strike again, and her presence caused the soldier to waver, but only just. “Stand aside, Clarissa.” 

“Not until you stand down.” She shot back, and when he moved closer, she placed a firm hand on his chest to stay him. “Lieutenant!”

He glowered at her, eyes like ice and threat in his posture. But Clara wasn’t afraid of him. Her pulse pounded in her ears and ricocheted through her veins but it wasn’t from fear. The Lieutenant came to be aware of the entire ballroom having gone silent, all attention fixed on the scene before them. He took a step back and thrust a long arm out to point an accusatory finger at the Doctor’s splayed form on the ground. “This man is a murderer.” The soldier’s voice boomed through the hall, and ripples of shock carried through the crowd. “And he’s a madman. He’s killed more people than there are in this room.” This comment, too, sent waves of distress and murmurs through the hall.

Clara turned and eyed the Doctor with hesitation, anxiety creeping through her limbs. His face was a mask of rage as he stared up at the solider. His glaring cobalt eyes met Clara’s, and a shiver ran up her spine as she saw death reflected in them.

“What is this?” the voice of Mr. Gregson demanded as he thrust his way through the walls of staring people. “Lieutenant!”

“Request permission to remove this man from your estate, sir.” Pink stiffly replied like the soldier he was.

Gregson’s face had gone red, “On what grounds?”

“This man is no doctor.” Declared Pink in a strong voice that swept through the hall. “This man is a killer. He murdered more men in the war than he saved. He was discharged from service for his madness, after he slaughtered innocent women and children.”

Bonnie had arrived at Mr. Gregson’s side and held her hand to her mouth in horror. “He’s the man who operated on Teddy!” she wailed, stricken in fear. “I want him out—out!”

The Lieutenant stepped towards the Doctor with the intent to haul him to his feet, but Clara pushed him back. The Lieutenant sent her a seething look, seeming as though he’d lost all control and reason.

“Clara,” a somber, broken voice rasped behind them. She turned and saw the Doctor weakly nodding at her, submission on his face and surrender in his eyes. “It’s alright.”

The Lieutenant thrust her aside and she could only watch dumbly as the solider seized the Doctor with more force than was necessary and hoisted him to his feet like a rag doll. She couldn’t help but see the Doctor’s wincing face as his injured shoulder was manhandled so roughly, but he held his footing after only staggering for a moment. The Lieutenant gripped his arm tightly and steered him through the crowd that parted before them in a wide berth. Clara watched the Doctor being half dragged through the hall as he stumbled and held onto his no doubt aching shoulder. She watched as Teddy remained where the crowed had parted, watching the procession with concern. Someone in the crowd grabbed his chair and yanked him back so he disappeared into the crowd as the men approached.

The Doctor was ripped out of the room and hurled out into the dark storm. Clara was left standing numb in the aftermath of a veritable hurricane.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you're all responding so well to this story so far! Thank you for the kind comments, thoughts, reflections, and reactions. I cannot stress enough how they help me push this little fiction of mine in the proper direction.  
> This is chapter 'Twelve' for a reason, as the Doctor's mysterious past starts to reveal itself...

The jovial atmosphere of Teddy’s party was rendered irredeemable following the Doctor’s forced removal from the occasion after the explosive confrontation with Lieutenant Pink. The guests left in awkward and troubled droves until only the Gregsons, the servants, and Clara remained. The once full ballroom was now empty of life and laughter. Tattered fallen streamers bedecked the floor like withered broken branches after a storm. 

The Gregsons demanded the children be put to bed by the servants, and ordered Clara to stay. She obediently waited as Teddy and Cecily were taken from the room until she was left alone to face the wrath of Theodore and Bonnie Gregson.

“Never,” the voice of Bonnie shook as her face trembled. “Never, in all of my days have I been so offended by the character of someone I once thought to be trusted. Miss Oswald, I am appalled at your lack of character judgement, and your willful disregard of my children’s safety.” Her words stung Clara to her core and she fixed her gaze on the floor. “I cannot fathom what possessed you to put Teddy in the hands of such a dangerous man, but I require an explanation this instant.”

She fought back the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Tears of shame, and hurt, and utter confusion. “I didn’t know him. A cab driver took me to him.”

Bonnie’s eyebrows shot up in dismay. “Oh, so we’re putting the lives of my children in the hands of cab drivers now, are we? I must say the level of apathy you’re displaying towards the safety of my family is nearing nonexistent indeed.”

Clara looked up and met her gaze at last, her eyes shining. “It was a mistake, I own it. Please, you must know how dearly I care for Teddy and Cecily, and I assure you I thought of nothing but Teddy’s own safety and health that day; had I known any of what Lieutenant Pink declared today I would have never—”

“Ignorance is no excuse for your recklessness.” Mrs. Gregson snapped. “Your intuition and judge of character should have warned you when you first met that madman.”

At this, Clara took affront. He had been nothing but kind to her. Strange, perhaps. Quirky, yes—but always kind. “Pardon me, but you met him yourself and apparently found him fit to invite him here tonight.”

“I did no such thing!”

Clara faltered. “But, you said you invited him, to keep me company.”

Bonnie laughed. It was bitter and shrill. “My dear girl—I know not his name or address, how would I have contacted him? Why would I invite him? For you? Don’t be absurd—I invited Lieutenant Pink.”

Her head pounded and the room felt as though it were spinning. If Bonnie hadn’t invited the Doctor, how did he come to attend the party? “Lieutenant Pink.” She echoed hollowly.

“Of course. I’ve seen you two together and thought you both might enjoy a night off. Thank heavens he was here otherwise we’d still be in the same room with that diabolical man who calls himself a doctor.”

Clara felt her tears begin to fall and she could do nothing to stop them. Her head was so overwhelmingly muddled with all the information being heaped upon her, in addition to that day’s dastardly start with the murder of her friend. Nothing made sense anymore. Perhaps it never did. She doubted every interaction she ever had with the Doctor. It was all so confusing, and he was so strange and mysterious. She didn’t even know his name. How could she have trusted a man so fully when she didn’t know anything about him other than his favorite authors, his most loved melodies, and the way his eyes lit up when he saw her? How could she have been such a fool? And to think, she had been alone with him on multiple occasions. Her skin crawled. Her nerves cracked. It was all too much. She felt the room around her darken about the edges, her ears rang, and Clara Oswald, utterly overcome, crashed to the floor as her body succumbed to a vertiginous faint.

 

Warm flickering light danced against her closed eyelids. Something heavy covered her body. The steady sound of rain on a distant windowpane. She felt she was in a reclining position, and as her senses returned she recognized she was sitting in the chaise lounge by the fireplace in the library. Clara slowly opened her eyes. Her fingers felt the knitted throw covering her. She shivered despite the warmth of the close hearth and blanket. Everything started coming back to her like sand in an hourglass. Every memory seemed worse than the last. Hattie’s death. The Doctor. The confrontation. She shut her eyes against the fresh remembrances.

“Miss Oswald?” 

She recognized the voice. The vicinity of the voice to the events that had only just happened caused her stomach to knot nauseatingly. A thrill of anxiety snaked up and down her spine. She swallowed and opened her eyes once more to find Lieutenant Pink.

He sat beside her in a chair he’d moved from the center table. He’d removed his red military jacket to dry it before the fire, and he looked more vulnerable and human in just a white collared shirt. His face was full of worry as he watched her return to lucidity. She became aware that they were the only two occupants of the library, and the only light was from that from the fire which cast everything in eerie shadows.

“What happened…” she murmured, her throat hoarse and dry.

“You collapsed. The Gregsons asked for my assistance and I brought you to the library.”

She swallowed and weakly cleared her throat. Sensing her desire, he held out a glass for her to drink. She took it and sipped, immediately making a face as the taste hit her tongue.

“Whiskey,” the soldier said apologetically. “Drink it, it will help you recover your senses.”

“Have you any water?”

“I’ll fetch you water once you’ve finished that. Trust me; we used it on patients in the army. It helps.”

She grimaced and sipped the amber liquid again, stifling the disgusted sound rising in her throat.

After a few moments passed, the Lieutenant hesitantly began, “I feel I owe you an explanation for my actions this evening. While you were…unconscious, the Gregsons alluded to what you’d told them, that you didn’t know that—” he paused, she could hear the tension rising in his voice. “No. I can’t call him a man, and monster doesn’t give his actions the title he deserves.”

Clara watched him as he spoke. The firelight moved in his eyes like spirits.

“Given that lack of information, you were no doubt taken by surprise when his presence tonight caused me to act as I did. I say with all conviction that, had the self-control I learned as a soldier not been present within me, he would be dead by my hand. It took every ounce of willpower within me to spare his life. You must think me some brute or a tyrant based only on the display you’ve seen tonight, so I feel it my responsibility to tell you what led me to behave as such. I think you’ll find that my actions tonight were more than warranted, and he deserved so much worse.”

She felt her hands tremble ever so slightly as a chill whispered up her spine. 

The Lieutenant turned his head to face the flames captured in the hearth. He seemed to find comfort in their dance rather than her listening countenance as he told his story. “You are aware of my family history serving the British Empire. I enlisted in the army as soon as I came of age. After several months training at home, my regiment was sent overseas to help aid the fight in India.

“When my battalion arrived, we were alarmed to find a number of English soldiers who were determined unfit for battle. They looked like they’d all seen death with their own eyes. We originally all thought they were merely in shock from the brutality of the war being fought, but we soon discovered there was more to their trauma than that. We found out that rather than aid them, we were there to replace them. Those stragglers of war, those half-men, were to be returned home and eventually incarcerated into asylums and hospitals to live out the rest of their days. 

“I had been made Second Lieutenant when we were dispatched to India, so I was responsible for my group of thirty men, and it was my duty to find out whatever I could from those decrepit soldiers. I sought out their first in command, and was met with silence. I asked for their second in command with an equal response. It soon became apparent that these men had no leader or man to govern their actions and words. I resorted to picking out one of the men whose eyes didn’t seem as dead as the others, and submitted him for questioning.

“It was like speaking to a child. I couldn’t infer anything but madness when he spoke. He raved on and on about witchcraft and murder; massacres and monsters. I found his tale to be illegible at best, and thought no more of it. The gist of it, however, will help you understand the horror my men and I had unknowingly stumbled into.

“The soldier’s story revealed that there had been a terrible illness that overtook nearly every man once they had arrived on Indian shores. Over half of the one hundred men were dead within three days, and out of the survivors, all showed symptoms of the same sickness. Panic had set in among the surviving soldiers, having only just gotten to land and already more than half of their number gone. The surviving men were desperate for a cure at any cost. They found a nearby Indian village and pleaded for assistance, but they were met with screams and terror. Apparently the disease they were now infected with was known only as ‘Death’ in their language. It was highly contagious and incurable once a person had contracted it. Naturally the village people were terrified by their presence, so strong was their fear of themselves becoming infected that they fought with deadly force against the soldiers, killing those who couldn’t retreat fast enough. The local villagers didn’t stop there. They sunk the ship that had carried the soldiers to their land, destroying all of their food and provisions. The surviving men were on their own in a strange land with no support, no food, and no shelter. 

“By this time, the soldier’s numbers had diminished to little over a third of those who had originally made the voyage. They had brought with them a doctor. In the beginning, the doctor had tried to cure the fast-spreading illness. He dissected the dead to discover what he could about the nature of the disease, but his attempts proved fruitless. The soldiers continued to die. The doctor then turned his attention to the living. He began dissecting the living soldiers while they could still breathe and scream. I don’t know how many men he killed this way. The corpses were never found. The soldiers remaining alive had started going mad with hunger. I will not burden your ears with the details of the missing bodies, but I can tell you the soldiers found ample sources of food.

“This part of the soldier’s story becomes muddled. He began to talk like a raving lunatic. He told me he saw the devil. He told me he saw the doctor communicate with the dead. I didn’t know what to make of the man’s words, and I still don’t know what to think, but later events revealed the strangeness of them to hold some terrifying bearing on the truth.

“The men had stopped dying, owing to the doctor having discovered some cure. The soldier told me he saw the doctor barter all the souls of the living soldiers to the devil himself in return for a cure. The soldiers began recovering, and the illness left their veins. Had they known what was coming, I’m sure they would all have willingly taken the death offered to them by the illness, in place of their new fate.

“One of the soldiers recently cured succumbed to a bite by a poisonous snake, and died within the hour. They didn’t bury him, for the strength hadn’t returned to their weak limbs yet, but they wished to god they had. 

“That night, the solider told me the dead man rose. He didn’t come back to life, for that implies he returned to a life he had only just lived. He became reanimated. He was dead, but he moved about. The men didn’t realize what had happened until the dead solider started attacking them in the night, preying on the weakest first. Screams rent the air, and the living soldiers, already standing on the precipice of madness, were now confronted with their dead comrade who wanted them to join him. Shots were fired, but the soldier never slowed in his attacks. The bullets and bayonets tore through him but didn’t slow him. It was only when the doctor interfered by removing the dead man’s head that the beast finally ceased its attack.

“But that was just the start. The soldiers the dead man had murdered in the night began to rise and continue the rampage he’d began. I know not how the men survived the second attack. By this time the soldier’s story became broken and unclear, the memories themselves seemed to make him devolve into panic and insanity.

“The men survived the night. Those who hadn’t entirely stumbled over the precipice of madness were lucid enough demand answers from the doctor, who had cured them of the disease, but cursed them in their afterlife. I could get no clear answer from the soldier, only the ramblings of a madman, but he stuck stalwartly to his claim that the doctor had bartered their souls for a cure. At this time of the man’s tale, I had resigned all that he spoke to that of a shell-shocked soldier who, after overcoming the adversities of a new land and the terror of disease, had lost his mind entirely. I demanded to know this man who called himself doctor, to question him myself in the hopes of getting a straight story rather than one tangled and spun by a man out of his mind. My request was met with violent opposition. 

“The traumatized soldiers were sent home on our ship, a new vessel would come for us within two weeks. We had more than enough supplies and food to last us a month. My men and I set off across the Indian terrain to fulfill the tasks the soldiers before us could not. One day into this new land, two of my men fell ill. Their symptoms seemed to be identical to those that the soldiers had described as the disease that had whittled their numbers down to almost nothing. Needless to say, we were all petrified by this illness, and wasted no time in dispatching of the sick men so as to stop the spread of the disease. Their deaths seemed to contain it, for the time being.

“We came to a village on the third day. They were full of innocent women and children; farmers ignorant of the war being waged beyond their doors. We had no qualms with them, and stayed with them for two nights, gleaning what information we could from them about the terrain, as well as the vegetation and water. 

“The first night of our habitation in the village, my men complained of mosquitos biting them. In the light of the sun the next day, many of them who slept beneath the stars were covered in red stinging marks. The village people, who declined to join us outside, claiming the air was bad, refused to share any insight to my men’s condition. My broken Hindi was such that I couldn’t understand why the villagers refused to go outside, but their trepidation was enough to shake me.

“Night fell. The whole village shared living quarters in a communal hut of sorts. We were all awoken by fire and heat. The building had been set ablaze by some exterior means. The doors were barred from the outside, and escape was made improbable to those within. My men attempted to extinguish the fire from without, but we had no water or means to smother the fire. We tried to unbar the door but it was firm, as though some supernatural force had kept it from opening. Every man, woman, and child inside perished, and we could only look on. The aftermath of the massacre—for that is what it was—was the first time I met the man who called himself the Doctor, who, if you have inferred, which I believe you have, is the same Doctor whose presence you shared tonight.”

Clara had forgotten to breathe. She inhaled and drank from the glass of whiskey in a desperate attempt to calm her pounding heartrate. The room felt as though it were freezing. The Lieutenant continued his tale.

“When we first saw him, we knew him not to be the doctor the mad soldiers had warned us of. He looked like a haggard man, but he proved to be English in accent and coloring. He appeared that night from the smoke and ruins of the Indian hut; I still remember the red cast the embers made on his face and form. He looked like Lucifer himself. We offered him assistance. He was half-starved, and his eyes were wild. He appeared to be no more than a man of thirty, but his hair had gone white. He seemed surprised by this, for when he saw his reflection among us, he found the color of his hair to be strange. We suspected he must have had a terrible shock of some kind to turn his hair the color of bones so quickly.

“He stayed with us that night. We fed him and drank with him. He seemed no different from the other soldiers we’d met; he seemed to be jumpy about something, and his eyes would roll around looking at everything in a peculiar, frightening way. He told us he had been separated from his regiment, that he was a mapmaker from Glasgow. We believed him. Why not? What was there to doubt? He looked the part and played it well.

“The next day he accompanied us. I admit I spent little time with him at all; I had men to lead, and he was a harmless civilian who could only get in my way. We traveled across a vast desert, and several of my men became overcome by the heat. We were forced to stop and erect a shelter for them. It seemed as if the very sun caused them anguish and acerbated their mosquito gnawed skin. The mapmaker took interest in these men. At the time, we knew not why. 

“That night, I was roused by one of my men. One look at the man’s face told me something terrible had happened. He bid me silently to follow him, so we left my tent and snuck to the make-shift infirmary we’d made for the sun stroke victims. What he showed me haunts me to this day. It was the mapmaker—the mad doctor—removing the heads of the fallen soldiers. I know not where he had got the equipment to do so, for he carried no medical bag when we met him. He had already removed the heads of three of the soldiers, and was moving on to the last two. They were all asleep. He preyed on them when they were at their most defenseless.

“I called the camp to arms. The doctor was seized before he could break the skin of his next victim with that horrible blade. I would have shot him on sight, so ghastly those murders were. They were my comrades, my friends, and his hands were imbrued in their blood. He turned out to be as mad as the rest of them. He fought against my men holding him, insisting he was trying to save us all, that those sleeping soldiers would kill everyone. I’d like to remind you that these men were sick with sun stroke and fever, and could not even stand, let alone wield a weapon. We manacled him to a post, intending to return him to England to face trial properly for his actions. His warnings turned to screaming. His words fell on deaf ears. By this time we had deduced that he was the same doctor that had terrorized the prior regimen of soldiers and sent all of them to an early grave or the asylum.

“In the morning, we found the two remaining ill men to be dead, having succumbed to their fevers. We buried them as best we could, and continued on our way, prisoner in tow. The desert was vast, and we lost the way as the sun grew higher into the sky. We were forced to make camp mid-day to get our bearings, tying the doctor to a post as we had done the night before. By the afternoon, a sand storm had begun, and we were forced to make our shelters last. The storm grew worse as the sun fell, and when darkness came, the fear of being buried alive took solid shape among us. The storm had covered our tents in high dunes of sand, the canvas sagged and the posts nearly broke under the weight. We learned to be judicial with our candles and oil, for the air we breathed became thin and scarce, but it wasn’t enough. We soon ran out of matches. My men and I waited in the muffled dark, listening and hoping the storm would cease. We tried to dig ourselves out, but the task proved itself to be dangerous at best. We ran the risk of collapsing the entire tent and truly burying ourselves alive if we tried to dig ourselves out from within.

“After a time, resigning ourselves to our fates, we heard a scratching noise from without our canvas tomb. The sound would not have been alarming, had there been something to move up against it from the outside, but as it were, we were buried under at least seven feet of sand. Every side of the tent was packed with earth. The sound scratching on the side of the tent was like the skeletal fingers of death reaching out to beckon us closer to that eternal crypt. 

“We remembered the Doctor. All this time we had been too preoccupied with our own survival and imminent demise that we’d forgotten him, left manacled to a post outside, vulnerable to the wicked and violent storm. He was no doubt dead, buried alive, choked to death on sand. But the scratching just on the exterior of the tent made us all think of him, that his ghost had come to finish what he had started with my dying men.

“I can’t begin to describe to you the panic we all felt as we listened to that noise. Trapped as we were beneath the sand, claustrophobic in that small space and our lungs burning from lack of oxygen, we all felt the fear of god in us, and thought our end was near. Entombed in blackness, we could only listen in horror as the canvas was slowly torn open bit by bit from the outside. The sound of a person entering the tent, the shudder as sand started to pour in through the new opening. My men and I couldn’t move. We were stricken with terror. I’ve never in my life faced something that rendered me thusly again. 

“The attacks started. Whatever, whomever, had entered the tent had descended upon us. Screams echoed around us in that small space, and the violent sounds of ripping and tearing of flesh, of bones being crushed between teeth, and of blood splattering on the sand assaulted our ears. My men and I finally sprung to action as the danger had become clear. Gunshots lit up the tent as my men fired aimlessly towards the sounds of the attacks. The milliseconds of light did much in alerting us of our adversary’s proximity. We tried shooting at it, we tried stabbing it, but nothing worked. My men fell like stones, one by one. Soon only a handful of us remained, and the monster, whatever it was, had impended over us like death itself.

“A brave lad came up behind it and blindly hacked at its neck. This seemed to send it into a fury, for it lunged at the boy, but not before the soldier could cut the tendons staying the beast’s head to its torso. The thing fell, and we were left alone. 

“We came out of that tent through the path the thing had burrowed through the sand. Outside the storm had died down to a whisper. Out of thirty of my men, only six survived the journey thus far. I ordered an immediate retreat towards the harbor from whence we had arrived. None of us stayed to return to that tent in daylight to see the face of our decapitated predator that night. And as far as we knew, the doctor was dead, buried in that desert.

“My men and I awaited our ship for a week. When it came, we immediately boarded and returned home. We never completed the missions assigned to us, and none of us went back. 

“When we returned to England, I sought out the mad soldier I had originally conversed with upon arriving in India. He was placed in an asylum in London. I asked him for his story of events once more, now that I had my own disbelief suspended, having experienced terrific things myself. The man remember nothing. The madness had eaten away at his brain. He was dead within a fortnight.

“Miss Oswald,” the Lieutenant saying her name jolted her from the fear that had gripped her. “I refrained from telling you the more gruesome information I was made abreast of about the man who calls himself the Doctor. I felt my own experience would be enough to disengage any doubt you possessed towards my actions regarding this evening. Several events happened between that India trip and tonight that told me of the Doctor being alive. I shan’t bore you with the details of how I came to find out, but it was shocking, to say the least. Well over a decade has elapsed, but even so, when I saw him tonight, despite age hiding his countenance, I knew him to be that one madman who had been the sole conspirator of my nightmares all these years.”

Clara could not find her voice. She stared at Lieutenant Pink as the minutes ticked by. She took a sip of whiskey to steady her nerves and help regain her voice. “Why did you not kill him tonight?”

“I can prove nothing, Miss Oswald. It’s my word against his. The men who were with me on that trip to India have all died in war. I’m all that’s left. I alone am cursed with remembering his deeds and his madness. Were I to murder him, I would be hanged, for what right have I to take his life? If I told the story I’ve told you before a court, they would pronounce me mad myself. I have no proof, and I don’t disvalue my own life enough to take revenge on such a beast. I have trusted, and still trust, that the universe will do my bidding and smite him down in the most horrific fashion worthy of his crimes.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating! I had all of you spoiled with 1+ chapters a day :) Schoolwork and work-work has been getting ahead of me, and I've had to prioritize them, much to my dismay. Enjoy some gratuitous Clara/Doctor in this chapter for your patience! Reviews are always appreciated

When the Lieutenant’s horrific story of the Doctor’s past concluded, Clara was overcome with weakness and exhaustion, both of the mental and physical. The Lieutenant carried her forthwith to her bed chamber, an act that broached no argument from Clara in her current condition. He held her as though she weighed no more than a feather, but was worth as much as any amount of jewels. Even in her weary state she could remember the smell of his cotton shirt and the feel of it against her face.

He put her to bed and bid her goodnight only when he was assured thrice by her that she was alright, and needed nothing further. As he shut the door to her bedroom behind him, and Clara was finally alone for the first time in hours, she couldn’t stop the sleep that overcame her almost instantaneously.

She dreamed of the Doctor in uniform stained red from blood. He stood atop a tower of mangled bodies, and beckoned her near, but as she drew close, he disappeared into dust that howled around her, screeching and screaming like all of hell had been given a voice.

The next day passed bleakly. The Gregson’s permitted Clara to remain bedridden, for she was in a state akin to catatonia. Her mind couldn’t help replaying the events of yesterday on a continuous loop. Hattie’s death. Teddy’s party. The Doctor’s arrival. Lieutenant Pink’s confrontation. The attack. His story.

She felt as though she should doubt every moment she’d shared with the Doctor, if he truly was a murderous madman. Why, then, did she feel no such revulsion? Terror at the Lieutenant’s tale, yes, anxiety towards the mystery the Doctor shrouded himself in, certainly, but fear towards him as a person? Never. The Doctor from the Lieutenant’s story and the Doctor she knew didn’t equate. They could not be the same person. She was unable to believe it based upon her own interactions with the man. He had a gentle manner, and his eyes were kind, despite his perpetually fierce eyebrows. He maintained a child-like curiosity and fear of the world. He was scared and vulnerable and caring. These were not the traits of a monster. She felt a desire to see him again, to hear his side of the story, for there must certainly be two sides. However, if the Gregson’s fear of him were any indicator of her sharing company with him again, she would have to sneak away for a private audience with the Doctor.

Teddy and Cecily were allowed to see her for an hour that day, and they kept her company by talking to her and reading aloud. She was thankful for their company when they were there, and equally thankful for their departure. Clara felt lonely and over-stimulated all at the same time. Conflicted and certain. 

The sun set, and the estate quieted down as the house retired to bed. Clara felt tiredness in her bones, but her mind was wide awake. Late into the evening, she attempted to close her eyes and shut out the world. An hour of this proved the attempt to be futile at best, but still she persisted. 

It was around this time that Clara heard that same noise that drifted towards her ears the night before Teddy’s party. A slow, haunting exhale that echoed like a stray wind in a colossal and empty hearth. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention and she held her breath as the sudden memory of her vanity table being bumped by some invisible intruder flashed in her mind. Her nerves told her to sit up, to open her eyes and become acutely aware of her surroundings, but Clara remained still. A shiver traced up the length of her spine as she heard something like a footstep on carpet, soft and still. Again that slow dispelling of air drifted through the air like a breath through cacophonous and ancient lungs. Her eyes remained shut despite the internal screaming within her telling her to rise, to fight, to see.

“Clara,” The Doctor’s voice tickled within her memory, and in her mind’s eye she saw him standing before her at the party. He was so close to her she could count the galaxies in his eyes, and his voice rang like bells in her head. “whatever you do, whatever you hear or think you hear…”

A slight rattling told her whatever was in her room was going through her things with care. Despite the cold, Clara felt feverish with panic. Her breath had frozen in her throat and her pulse was drumming in her veins in one constant surge. She felt a slow stream of air caress the side of her face, accompanied with the very close sound of that morose and echoed breathing. It was so near to her she could feel the reverberations of that sonorous sound within her chest. She feared the sensation, accompanied with her catatonic fear, would stop her heart beating altogether. Whatever was in her room, for there surely was something, it was standing over her. Watching her. Waiting.

“Don’t look.”

She lay still, eyes squinted shut, every nerve in her body tensed to the point of aching. She knew few things for certain. One: she was not alone. Two: she knew not who was in the room with her. Three: it was vital that she remained quiet and appeared to be sleeping, for her life depended on it.

The minutes ticked by. All sounds had stopped, but she dared not open her eyes or move. She couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was in the room with her was watching her, waiting for her to move or open her eyes as an excuse to attack her. Clara lay motionless, listening so hard her ears hurt. Time continued to pass without a sound. If a pin had dropped in the next county, Clara could have heard it.

Another foot on the carpet. Distant. So it was still in the room. It had been listening, waiting, all that time. Soft but audible steps now passed across her room. She heard the sound of her door opening, and closing as whatever had just been with her had left. She let out a breath at long last, but dared not open her eyes until her whole body stopped shaking with nerves and fear. 

After a long period had passed when no other sounds were made, Clara finally, slowly, carefully, opened her eyes with only one thing on her mind. She had to see the Doctor.

Swift as lightning, she got out of bed and thrust her arms into a robe, and her feet into house slippers. She went from her room without a candle, descended the staircase as though a monster were at her back, and dashed through the entrance hall with the fear of god in her. She didn’t stop running until she had traversed the entire grounds of the estate and was several blocks away. Only then did she slow her mad dash to a lesser one, but her method of travel could still be categorized as running. She didn’t stop until she was outside the Doctor’s door. Panting, lungs burning, she knocked loudly and urgently on the door in a continuous rat-tat-tat, until she heard the locks from the inside being worked and the door was flung open.

Before her stood the Doctor looking very much awake despite the hour at which she’d arrived. His eyebrows flew up in surprise upon seeing her, but immediately furrowed in concern. “Clara—”

She pushed past him into his house and he shut the door behind him, “What are they?” she demanded, her voice thin as she gasped for breath.

His eyes were wide as he looked at her. She reflected she must look like a madwoman; hair undone, and standing in her nightclothes before him, face drawn with fright. “They?”

“The break-ins,” he raised a finger and opened his mouth to correct her and she amended with a huff before he could, “The break-outs! I need to know what you know, Doctor. And I know you know.”

He looked at her beneath his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Clara, there’s something you need to understand. I’m going to make this crystal clear. These robberies, the murders—”

“Murders? But there’s only been one.”

“There will be more. Listen to me. The important thing to remember is that I know what is happening. I alone hold that knowledge. You know nothing. Nor will I tell you. You are ignorant and will continue to be ignorant. Is that clear?”

Her mouth hung open in stupefaction. Why was he treating her this way? It hurt. “No it is not clear!” he was already moving past her and down the hall. “Doctor, they’re in the house. They were in my room, I know it.”

He turned immediately and she saw his gaze shift into a deep glower as it settled on her. Clara felt inclined to take a step back; he looked suddenly terrifying. “Did you see them?”

She faltered. “No. No I kept my eyes shut.” Clara paused for a moment before adding, “Like you told me to.”

He seemed to relax slightly; his shouldered became less fiercely angular and his face seemed to soften around the edges, but just barely. Was she imagining the look of something akin to pride in his eyes as he looked at her, hidden behind those shadows on his face? “Good. Next question: would you like tea?”

She knew better than to argue with his non-sequiturs by now. She agreed, and he led her to the sitting room where they first shared conversation while Teddy healed. He left her to get comfortable while he disappeared into the kitchen. She sat on the chaise lounge, and it felt so familiar. Her eyes wandered about the room and she felt comfortable. The old books. The coal fireplace. The artwork. His wingback chair. Images Lieutenant Pink’s story had conjured up drifted before her eyes. The Doctor’s hands imbrued with blood. Dissecting live patients. Removing the heads of soldiers while they slept. Was she sitting in the house of a murderer? A madman? The thoughts left her mind as easily as they had come, only leaving traces of trepidation, but nothing to alarm her. Why wasn’t she scared? Why did his presence comfort her and make her feel safe?

He came back several minutes later with a silver tray of tea. He handed her a cup and poured the hot amber leaf brew near to the brim. She warmed her hands around the teacup.

“So,” he started, lowering himself into his wingback chair and pouring himself a cup. “I imagine you have questions for me.” She watched the light from the embers glow against the side of his face. The light made the lines on half of his face more pronounced, and the other half subdued. “Concerning my past. Solider boy has no doubt taken it upon himself to regale you with my history.”

Well. That was quite a segue. “Yes.”

“And out of curiosity, what did he tell you about me?”

“You killed people. You went mad.”

He smiled to himself and sipped his tea. “Half true.”

Her eyes widened. “Which half?”

He waggled his eyebrows at her conspiratorially. “I think you ought to decide for yourself after I’ve told you. Then you could perhaps tell me whether I’m a murderer or a madman.”

“You don’t know?”

His gaze fell to stare into the slowly dying coals. “I find it difficult to discern at times. I don’t know whether I’m a good man or a bad man. I don’t know if I’m right or wrong. The veil between knowing myself and not knowing has become so thin and tattered I can’t tell one from the other. I know what I feel, and I know what I think. But I also know what I see; memories, what I’ve done, and when I remember that I doubt everything I’ve ever thought or felt. It’s confusing and it’s hard and sometimes it’s painful.” His eyes returned to her. He smiled at her weakly out of courtesy to her, in case his introspective words had been too much, “So, Clara, if you would be so kind as to tell me who I am, I would be indebted to you, I think.”

“Doctor,” Clara breathed. “I don’t want you to feel that you must tell me your history because of what Lieutenant Pink said.” At her words, his face dissolved into one of surprise. “I don’t want you telling me to be an act of rebuttal. If you tell me…when you tell me, I’d like it to be when you’re ready.” She couldn’t fully grasp why she was telling him this. She was burning with curiosity, and yet, their relationship, their rapport was something she’d begun to consider precious. She didn’t want to violate it, and she didn’t want others harming it. Clara cared for the Doctor. Clara trusted the Doctor. Clara felt safe near him. That was enough, for now, surely? “I can wait.”

She lacked the words to describe the look in his eyes as he stared at her. A mixture of sadness, of happiness, of relief, of awe, and his expression seemed so unusual for him, as though his exterior were cracking, and she was seeing the man within. He blinked, and the look was gone. He nodded briskly. “You imply you will be around. Waiting for me to tell you all my secrets.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She responded firmly. “You’ve become my hobby.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, finding this amusing. “Your hobby?”

She sipped her tea. “If I may be so bold as to perceive that you feel the same towards me?”

He colored at this. “Pardon?”

“Going out of your way to come to Teddy’s party, for a start.”

He shifted in his seat. “Oh. That. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d…” His words trailed off when he saw her skeptical, long-suffering face. He deflated into the chair. “I had to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

His slender fingers fiddled with the air as he tried to grasp the right phrase, and failed. He resigned one hand to run sheepishly through his hair. “Sure that you were—that is to say, that the estate was—with the murder and robbery happening one house over, I only suspected that—” he cleared his throat, readjusted, “I came to look in on Teddy.”

“Teddy.”

“I was his doctor, wasn’t I? Operating on a person creates a bond. Of sorts. When I help someone, I want to be sure they stay safe. I have a duty of care.”

“A duty? I’ve never heard a doctor speak of their craft that way.”

He huffed agitatedly. “Well then they must not be very good doctors.”

She sipped her tea. Did he see her as a patient, too? She reflected on him saving her. Wasn’t that what doctors did? Did he feel as though he had a duty of care over her, too? Or perhaps was it the other way around—did she feel that she had a duty of care to keep him safe? To know him? To help him? She felt her cheeks color slightly. “Or perhaps you’re just peculiar.”

“I prefer quirky and rakish, thank you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Eccentric might fit you better.”

“You’re bantering. Stop that.”

“Takes two to banter.”

“I never banter.”

“Oh really, what’s this then?”

“I am discussing, you are bantering. Which is like cantering only you’re not a horse and you’re slightly less vain.”

“I beg your pardon—slightly?”

“It means somewhat.”

She glared at him. “I am aware what the word slightly means. I was referring to you putting it before ‘less’ and ‘vain’.”

His fingers scratched the air once more. “I only meant—you seem rather—that is to say, you look the sort who prides themselves in their appearance. With your face and your hair and your clothing and your eyes.” She flushed. Was this some sort of sideways compliment? He looked confused. “Never mind. You’re not a horse. You don’t cant. You bant. Which is worse.”

“Doctor, in case you haven’t noticed, I look like a mess at the moment.”

“You look nice. Short and roundish in the face, but that’s normal. The nightie is a nice touch if you’re going for a Dickensian thing. Was that what you were going for?”

She bit back a snappy reply that consisted of her trials that night and her need to leave the estate in a hurry, as well as an expletive. She was feeling more relaxed the longer she stayed with him, despite the fear that had driven her from her home. She felt safe. Even if he was terrible at compliments. Or fashion. Or comprehending feelings or other people. “Why are you up at this hour?” she asked instead of answering him.

“I don’t sleep.”

“Ever?”

“I’ve perfected the catnap. I can do it standing up. It’s thrilling.”

She studied him for a moment. The dark circles under his eyes seemed black in the shadows from the fireplace. She wondered if he were afraid of what he saw when he closed his eyes. “Do you have nightmares?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“They can’t be nightmares if you have them at all hours.” He interrupted his own dark thought path and smiled at her, as if to sweep what he’d just said under the carpet. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. The tea is helping. I’m rather tired, actually.”

“That would be the tea indeed.”

“Did you put something in it?”

“Only chamomile, and a soothing concoction of mine. I find it helps calm my nerves whenever they get uppity.”

She smiled at him. “It’s working, thank you.”

“Would you like to rest for a bit before I take you home—” he ran a hand through his hair again as he cut himself off. “That is to say, before I call you a cab. I’ve a feeling I’ll be shot on premises of the estate; better if I let you go alone, though I’m loathe to do so.”

He was loathe to let her go alone? She checked herself. He was only referring to the danger that lurked in the estate, not about her personal safety in getting there. “That would be nice. I am tired.”

He nodded and stood. He took her teacup from her and she pulled her legs up on the chaise lounge. When she’d gotten comfortable, he’d returned with a thick blanket and draped it over her gently. When she took it up, their fingers brushed, and she felt a sort of buzzing fly through her frame at the sensation. She closed her eyes when she heard him quietly leave the sitting room. Despite everything, she felt a powerful sense of feeling at home. As this comforting thought washed over her, she drifted off into a peaceful slumber.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the warm responses last chapter! I wonder if they'll be warm after this one... :)

A coal popped in the fireplace and Clara awoke with a start. Disorientated for the first moment, she quickly remembered what had led her to sleep at the Doctor’s house. She looked around the room dyed in muted orange from the nearly dead embers of the faintly glowing coals. The clock on the mantle read four-twelve in the morning. The Doctor was reclining in his wingback chair, his head resting in one hand, an open book held loosely in the other. He was asleep. She studied him for a moment, at last an opportunity to really, truly look at him.

When his eyes were closed, he seemed almost peaceful, save for the fact that his eyebrows were still perpetually cross even in sleep, a feat she didn’t quite understand but marveled at all the same. His face looked younger when it wasn’t drawn with lines or tense thoughts the conscious mind cultivated; it appeared relaxed and dare she say at ease. He was handsome, she thought, and as she realized this she felt something stirring in her stomach like warmth. He was very handsome, in an intelligent, lanky, and almost delicate way. His skin was paper white and seemed just as fragile. His lips were red in stark contrast, thin and bow-like. His nose could almost be classified as being hooked, but it seemed to rebel this notion at the last moment at the tip, and instead came to appear long, thin, and pointed. His eyebrows looked as though they were attempting to rage at the world despite the rest of him. His hair was of the purest silver in the failing firelight, elegant, thick curls that she’d seen in short disorder were perfectly in place. If he were plagued with nightmares as he had alluded to, his face showed no apparent signs of anguish or troubled subconscious. She thought once more about the tale Lieutenant Pink had spun her about the Doctor’s past. Looking on this peaceful man sleep, she felt he could not be that man who performed gruesome experiments on the living and hacked off the heads of slumbering soldiers. He looked innocent. She thought on this for a time, and a shiver dusted against her spine. Too many questions, too few answers. He was a mystery. Unfortunately, to her, mysteries weren’t dangerous; they were enticing. She wanted to unearth him, piece by broken piece, until his story became clear. And she knew where she should start.

Clara sat up slowly and quietly, wrapping the thick blanket he’d brought for her around her shoulders. She stood up carefully, biting her lip as she watched him, but he remained still and unconscious. Softly she padded from the room and down the hall, her eyes scanning the pictures covering the walls like wallpaper as she maneuvered through the narrow corridor. She found the music room a few doors down and after sending a careful glance behind her to ensure he hadn’t awoken and followed her, she crept within and shut the door silently behind her.

She needed answers. He told her he wouldn’t tell her anything, and his reasons were his own. Protecting her, no doubt. Hadn’t he told her information was dangerous? Perhaps dangerous to the wrong people, but Clara needed to know. She needed to protect herself. In a moment of sheer panic she’d run to him, hoping he’d protect her because he seemed to know something. If she was going to stay safe, she needed information to protect herself. Clara Oswald needed protection from no one, and didn’t ever want to put herself in the position of appearing bedraggled and frightened on anyone’s front step again. 

Once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she groped around her for a candle and match. On a table near the door, her fingers found what she sought, and in a moment she had a bit of light. She carried the candle towards the piano where she last saw the Doctor’s obsessive interest in the case in the form of sprawling newspapers. They were still there, only they had doubled in size, at least. She looked closer and found many of the papers to have scribblings and scrawled writing crammed into the margins. Words in the articles were underlined, crossed out, written over, boxed in, and overall the articles were left near impossible to discern. Like inky scribbled madness. She held the flame closer and tried to make out some of his scrawl in the margin beside the most recent robbery and death of her friend, Hattie. The article referred to her death as merely that, no mention of murder or foul play. This seemed to irk the Doctor.

‘break-out’ he’d written beside the portion that described the gruesome manner of her death, in which she was disemboweled from the inside out. This section of the paper in particular was so underlined and written on it was acutely impossible to read the article. Clara felt gooseflesh rise on her arms and hugged the blanket around her closer. Below that note the next strange phrase he’d scrawled; ‘no silver’.

Clara shuffled that paper aside and found a map of London he’d clearly drawn himself in dark ink over the back of one insignificant portion of the paper. It was intricate and massive, it must have taken hours. He’d made a point to mark out the position of each robbery. As she looked at it, she realized they all formed a sort of pattern, like a large, slightly lopsided X. Beside each estate that had been robbed, he’d noted the date of the robbery. She saw in red ink he’d circled the precise location of the Gregson estate, directly beside the manor Hattie was murdered in. Above the red circle around the estate, he’d written the date Hattie was murdered, but it was crossed out. Below that, he’d written that night’s date with a spindly question mark.

What did it all mean? Had he tried to predict the robberies? Had he known exactly why Clara had come to him that night before she’d told him? He did seem rather nonplussed by the whole ordeal. He had furrowed his brows in concern but seemed more worried if she had seen whatever was in her room than surprised at there being something there. After that he’d offered her tea and spoke no more of it. He surely must have known. The thought made Clara shiver all the more. Who was he? The mysterious man who called himself Doctor and told her nothing else? Why had she trusted him so willingly, after all she’d found out? Despite his kindness and his gentleness, despite him saving her life by risking his own that day on the London streets, despite it all, why did she keep coming to him?

The calming effect of the tea he’d given her several hours ago was wearing off. She was feeling uncomfortable and anxious. She was alone in his house. With him. He might be a murderer, or a madman. For all she knew, he could be the one orchestrating all of the attacks. How else could he know that the night Hattie was murdered, Clara had heard that creeping breathing in her room, as she had heard last night, as well? He had the date and house right, but whatever was in her room the night Hattie was murdered had chosen not to attack Clara. Was it him? He’d told her that very night there would be more murders. Would they be by his hand?

The flame in her hand trembled as a draft buffeted against it. The flicker sent the room into sickening shadows for a moment before returning back to a full flame. Clara felt very cold. She wanted to leave immediately.

Quickly turning towards the door, she blew out the candle and exited quietly. Tiptoeing down the hall, she had just made it past the sitting room where the Doctor was resting when she heard a step behind her. She spun quickly and saw the Doctor, very much awake, frowning behind her with hesitation in his eyes.

“Clara,”

“I was just—”

“Leaving, yes.” He answered, a worry line in his brow. “Can I call you a cab?” he gestured with one hand and her immediate reaction was to jump back a foot at the sudden movement. They both froze, staring at one another. She was afraid. He was confused. “Is…” he lowered the hand he’d gestured mildly with and held it with his other, massaging the wrist in a nervous way. “Is something the matter?”

She shook her head. “No. No I’d just like to go home.”

He watched her curiously for a beat. “Have I…?” his question trailed away and he looked down at his wringing hands.

“I think I’d prefer to walk.”

His voice was small, thin, his eyes remained on his hands, “It’s still dark out.”

“I got here right enough didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“I don’t need you to look out for me.” She interjected firmly, cutting off his meek contention. “I don’t need protecting. I thank you for letting me stay here tonight, but know that it was a mistake. I was scared, and I thought you could help me.”

His eyes searched her face desperately. Her words had cut him deeply. “Clara, I only—”

“Thank you, Doctor. Goodbye.” She said with an air of utter finality before turning on her heel and closing the distance between herself and the front door.

“I’m sorry—I never meant to scare you, that’s what you are, yes? Scared?” he called after her frantically.

She whirled about to face him, fire in her eyes. “Yes! Yes I am frightened.”

“Good! Be scared, be petrified—but not of me.”

“Oh that’s rich—I don’t even know you! One moment it’s like we’ve known each other for years and the next I feel you’re a total stranger. Which are you, Doctor, friend or foe?”

“I will not presume to call myself your friend, Clara, but please know that I want to keep you safe from harm.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t need anyone protecting me. Not you, not anyone.”

“Oh is that right? Tell that to your precious Soldier Boy.” 

Her eyes widened in incredulity and her mouth fell open at his bitter words. “I beg your pardon?”

“The first chance he got to play the hero for you he took. Painting me to be a monster in your eyes and knocking me to the ground; that was more than a personal vendetta, Clara. That was him exercising his rather excessive testosterone—as a doctor I’d say he might have some sort of gland disorder—for you, but he broke his hand and it serves him right, doesn’t it?”

“He didn’t break his hand--”

“I heard something break and it wasn’t my jaw. I’ve been called thick-skulled in the past but this puts an entirely different spin on it.”

He was hurt and he was lashing out. And now she was angry. “Are you bragging about hurting him?”

He faltered, “What? Of course I’m not—he hit me, remember?”

“And you’re smiling! You’re smiling about him breaking his hand on your face.” It was true. When he’d started talking about Pink, a strange, twisted sort of grin had snaked across his face. 

“I am not smiling.” He brought a hand up and felt his mouth as if to prove a point and stopped when he felt the smirk. “That’s not the point. Clara, what is happening? What’s made you so hostile towards me?”

She was shaking with ire, with fright, with passion. She felt utterly betrayed and hurt that he would use Lieutenant Pink against her like this, assuming the soldier fancied her like everyone else. It was frustrating, and it was mean, and it made her think the Doctor didn’t know her at all. That thought seemed to sting more than anything. Before her stood a man who she’d talked for hours with before a fire, swapping favorite authors and books, speaking passionately about music and art. They had been so mentally intimate, and she’d never experienced that sort of profound closeness with another human being. She’d never let anyone get close enough, nor had she ever conversed with a person who seemed to care so little for rules and social norms or class status. He felt real to her. He felt genuine. The mystery he shrouded himself in was one of his quirks, she’d thought, but now it perturbed her beyond words. She felt they stood on uneven terrain. He knew exactly where to poke a sharp stick to wound her and she knew nothing about him to fight back with. 

She felt hot tears burn at the corners of her eyes as she glared at him. “You! You have belittled me and treated me like I’m no one, and it hurts, because you were the only person I’ve met to treat me like I’m someone. I’ve given you respect, I’ve tolerated you and your mystery but you’ve given me no respect in return. How dare you tell me what I should or shouldn’t know, and how dare you presume my fondness of Lieutenant Pink, which I assure you does not exist, and above all how dare you assume that I need protecting and use that as your excuse to keep me in the dark!” She had to stop because the tears had started to catch in her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek and glared at the wall to steady herself before continuing hollowly. “I want to trust you but you make it impossible. I can’t do this anymore, Doctor.” 

Clara turned without looking at him and placed her hand on the latch. His voice behind her, a hoarse despairing whisper, “Clara,” didn’t stop her. She pulled the door open and exited into the early morning air, letting the blanket she’d held about her fall onto the threshold as she departed.

 

The walk back to the Gregson estate was cold and sobering. She didn’t feel angry anymore, only broken, somehow, but not by him. She was in such a preoccupied state of mind, she at first didn’t notice the multitude of police cabs huddled outside of the estate until she was nearly on top of them. So it was robbed, then. She reflected on her midnight flee from the scene of the impending crime. A burly officer stopped her before she could slip through the open gate, and she began to realize the situation she was in. A young maid in a nightgown returning home to the place of a crime. The officer started questioning her in earnest and just when she felt as though the two were talking in circles, a man in a tweed suit approached them and demanded to know who Clara was. As soon as she had explained, the man (no doubt a higher-up in Scotland Yard), led her into the house to get one of the family or staff to confirm her identity. 

It was at this moment that Clara began to feel mounting trepidation as to the state of the manor. Was it only a robbery? Had there been another murder? Her stomach clenched when she thought of Teddy and Cecily. She had been a coward that night. She ran in fear from the estate when there was clearly something lurking within. Although she had been surging with adrenaline and terror, she felt it was no excuse for abandoning her wards. In addition to the terror that had impacted the estate that night, her own self was sure to come under fire. Why had she left, and where had she gone? She needed to come up with a reasonable answer quickly that refrained from referring to the Doctor.

Mr. and Mrs. Gregson stood in the entrance hall looking like frayed ghosts in their nightshirts and robes. Cecily stood beside them wide-eyed and crying. Teddy was nowhere to be seen. The Gregson trio seemed to look through her at first, in too much of a shock to contemplate who she was, but when the reality of her presense hit them, Cecily ran to her and hugged her legs.

Clara leaned down to stroke the shaking girl’s hair and whispered urgently, “Cecily, where’s your brother? Where’s Teddy?” fearing the worst. The young girl’s reply was muffled in Clara’s nightclothes. Before she could ask Cecily again, the senior Gregsons approached her.

“They didn’t find you.” Bonnie said woodenly. “I thought you were—”

“Where’s Teddy? Is he alright?”

Mr. Gregson pointed upwards to imply the boy was still in his room. “Where did you get off to?” He asked with scrutiny, “Why weren’t you in bed?”

Clara swallowed hard. How to explain everything without sounding like a wanton mistress of the night or a culprit in the crime? “I…was only…sleepwalking.” She bit her tongue and cursed herself. A terrible, flimsy excuse. She quickly changed the subject to one that was tickling at the back of her mind. All around them were police officers and investigators, going through the rooms and examining everything. There was someone missing in all of it, “Where’s the Lieutenant?”

Bonnie Gregson sniffed haughtily. “He has been discharged. For failing in doing his duty.”

“Discharged?” Clara repeated in disbelief.

“Is there any reason why he should not be?” Mr. Gregson glowered.

“We’ve been robbed!” Bonnie cried. “He was meant to keep us safe and all the same we were robbed!” the older woman was overcome with tears and Mr. Gregson held her as she sobbed. He turned to glare at Clara.

“Where were you, Clara? Dressed like that, at this hour?” his tone implied what she was afraid they would assume. 

Clara hesitated as she chose her words, trying out some version of the truth, “If you must know, I had to see someone.”

The older man snarled, “Who?! Who could be so important as to have you abandon your place here, tonight of all nights?”

Clara felt her pulse pound in her ears. She didn’t know what to say.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for the kind responses :) Buckle up, kiddos..

Clara sat with Teddy by the window in his room. He was only six, but he was handling the trauma of the household with extraordinary calm. She studied him as he sat in his wheelchair, staring forward out over the grounds, watching the officers and investigators leave no stone unturned in their search for answers.

The Gregson estate had been robbed of all of its silver, as the other manors had been over the past several weeks. No trace of a break-in was to be found, but all of the doors were unlocked and left open, as though someone had broken out. No one had been hurt or killed, but the entire household was thoroughly shaken. The consolation of the Gregson’s fortune not being all in silver was only slight, as the sensation of being violated by some unknown intruder far outweighed the slight monetary loss.

Clara had been questioned like everyone else. She couldn’t tell anyone she’d been to see the Doctor, especially after the Gregson’s explosive mistrust of her for sharing his company in the past, after Lieutenant Pink had erupted at Teddy’s party over the man’s presence. Instead, and due to recent events the excuse was plausible, she’d claimed she had been sleepwalking, in a way. She was still in shock from the gruesome death of her friend, Hattie, and was prone to anxious subconscious fits that caused her to walk aimlessly at times at all hours of the night. Her excuse of a trance-like state of mourning she accompanied with several real tears, and the officers left her alone. Mr. Gregson, on the other hand, was suspicious. He didn’t interrogate her any further, but she felt it in the way he watched her. He looked at her as though she were a suspect, some untrustworthy wretch. And was he not right? The moment there was an intruder, Clara had fled right into the arms of the Doctor, a man who the Gregsons feared and loathed. She had betrayed the good faith of the family she served in a moment of blind panic. She’d sought solace in a stranger and she hated herself for it. In the future, she would be more careful. In the future, she wouldn’t trust so easily. In her future, there was no Doctor.

Nevertheless, she refrained from telling the investigators about the Doctor’s strange obsession with the case and his mysterious prediction of the Gregson house robbery, or what he’d scribbled in the margins of the reports that told her loud and clear that he not only suspected something, but that he was confirming something. She declined from mentioning him at all. He was no one. He had no name. And part of her, a very small part, found this to be the decent thing to do. He had been kind to her. She liked him, despite everything. She declined telling the officers about him to keep him safe, even though she planned to never see him again.

And yet...she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Everything seemed to come back to him, like some twisted briar at the center of which was his madness. She was hopelessly tangled in those thorns; snagged and struggling with everything she had to free herself, but she continuously fell further and further into that impenetrable darkness. 

Clara watched Teddy stare at the men stomping through the gardens. His expression was blank. There was nothing to read from the young boy’s face. She knew not whether to hold his hand or remain where she was. She worried about the impact a traumatic series of events that had taken place over the past few days would have on the conscious or subconscious mind of one so young. She knew so much of who people grew up to be were direct results from their own histories with the world and the people in it. She felt personally so much of who she was, all of her negative traits, all of her nervous tics and anxieties came from her experiences with her father. She desperately hoped Teddy’s relationship with his own repaired into one of semblance to give the boy some sort of a chance, before he lost his father, too.

In addition to the Doctor, Clara felt a level of interest in the condition of Lieutenant Pink after being discharged from the Gregson estate. She’d no idea what had become of him, but assured herself that he was a solider and was under the employment of the home army, and wouldn’t want for work merely because his post at the Gregson’s was terminated. She couldn’t help but feel somehow responsible for his condition. Had she only been able to tell the officers about the thing in her room, that invisible thing that could break out of rooms and scare her to death—but such a claim sounded absurd. The only way she could backup her story would be to cite the words of the Doctor, and the Doctor himself, and that was something she could not do. So she remained silent and unhelpful. There was nothing to be done and for now, here, the danger was over.

So she thought.

Clara chose instead of taking Teddy’s hand to place her own cold ones into the pockets of her robe. She hadn’t yet changed from her nightgown, robe, and slippers she’d fled the house in, not having seen the point. Her fingers brushed against something within the right-hand pocket, hard and cold. She frowned and pulled the object from her pocket and brought it before her eyes. It was a key, but it was strange looking; intricate and detailed, long and brass, with a small blue crystal at the base. She smiled at Teddy.

“And where’d you find this?”

He looked at her with those neutral eyes, then looked at the key with indifference. “What do you mean?”

“This is not the first time you’ve hidden trinkets in my clothes. Where did you get this?”

“I never saw it before.” He said, before turning back to stare out of the window. Clara watched him for a moment and blinked. Perhaps Cecily had snuck it into her pocket without her knowing. She turned the key over and over in her hands. It was pretty, and felt comfortable between her fingers. She thought no more of it and held it like a worry stone, idly stroking it with a thumb.

“Is Lieutenant Pink really gone?” the young boy’s voice broke through her thoughts.

She turned her own gaze to the window. “Yes. He was only here temporarily, Teddy.”

“Who will teach us arithmetic?”

“I will.”

“You do it wrong.”

Clara turned her eyes back on Teddy. The boy was frowning slightly. Clara spoke quietly, “Do you miss him?”

“Who will keep us safe, Clara?” implored the small boy, meeting her eyes. “Who will keep the monsters away?”

She shivered. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Did he hear the breathing creeping things at night, too? “What monsters, Teddy?”

The boy was growing cross. “And what about the Doctor? I want out of this stupid chair. I want to see him again to get out.”

“Teddy, do you remember the fight that happened at your party? Your parents don’t like the Doctor anymore, so you’ll be seeing the house doctor from now on.”

“Then take those stupid pills back.” He grouched, pointing to the bottle at his bedside table. They were filled with small pain killers the Doctor had prescribed when his ankle had started hurting. He hadn’t needed them all week. Clara dreaded the idea of going back to the Doctor, even if it was just to drop off the pills, but they were his, after all. She could just drop them off. In and out. Well, not in, she wouldn’t have to go in. Just out-and-out. 

Clara took the bottle and tucked it into her robe pocket so she wouldn’t forget.

Toward mid-morning, the investigation had more or less concluded. Everyone in the household had been questioned, and every part of the estate had been searched thoroughly to no avail. What luck did they have, Clara thought, searching for traces of specters? 

Finally dressing that day proved a bit difficult at times. Her silver hairbrush had been taken, so she was forced to comb through her hair with her fingers. Even several buttons were missing from one of her dresses, and she was astonished, for they must have been silver, although she never knew. The thieves left nothing in the entire household made of silver even in the smallest amount. The key Clara had found in her pocket that morning she’d grown rather fond of, having fidgeted with it all morning. She found a bit of black ribbon and laced it around her neck and hid it beneath her dress, feeling the cold metal warm against her breast. She held the small bottle of pills in her hand if she had a spare moment to drop them off. She’d take a cab there and back. Round trip would be fifteen minutes. Fast and easy. Drop them off and leave. No problem. No talking.

She made her way downstairs to inquire as to when dinner would be served, under the present circumstances, so she would know when to ready the children, and to see if she had the time to sneak away. The cook affirmed dinner would be served an hour later, as all of the serving ware had been stolen and they had to make do. That gave her three hours, and surely she could get to the Doctor and back in that time with ample time to spare.

Clara was just about to leave through the front door with that goal in mind, when a voice behind her stopped her. She turned to see Mr. Gregson, and felt a ripple of mild dread go through her.

“And where, pray tell, are you off to now?” the burly man inquired with a steely gaze.

“For a walk, if you don’t mind sir.”

He approached her. “Like your little midnight stroll?”

“I—no. No I just need some fresh air. The children are occupied, I shan’t be but a quarter of an hour.”

His eyes bore into her. “Miss Oswald, I have the very distinct feeling that you are lying to me.”

“What reason would I have to lie to you?”

“What are you hiding behind your back?”

“Hiding? I’m not hiding anything.”

She wasn’t ready for him when he seized her arm with brute force and whipped it out behind her back to reveal her clutching the small blue bottle of pills. He ripped them from her grasp and held them before her. “And what are these?”

“They were from the Doctor, for Teddy’s ankle.” She confessed. “I was only returning them to him.”

“I thought we made our opinions of that man very clear?”

“Better I go and drop these off to him than he comes here to take them back.” She responded snappily, and regretted it immediately. Mr. Gregson’s eyes darkened and his entire countenance shifted into one of malice.

“I don’t trust him. And I don’t trust you. I didn’t believe your sleepwalking story for one minute. Someone saw you last night go to that man’s lodgings. And then you had, and still have, the gall to lie to my face. I’d like you to remove yourself permanently from this estate and never show your face here again.”

Clara felt as though she was hit with a sheet of ice. “What? Mr. Gregson, I assure you the Doctor and I—that is to say, there is no Doctor and I, I promise—”

“We want you gone first thing tomorrow morning.” He spoke sternly, shoving the bottle back into her limp hand. “That should give you ample time to pack and find accommodations.”

“Mr. Gregson, please—”

“We feel no obligation to pay you for the rest of the week due to your unscrupulous behavior. We do not condone or employ women of your ilk. Good day, Miss Oswald.” The man curtly concluded before striding off down the hall.

Clara was numb. She couldn’t process what had happened. He thought she and the Doctor were lovers? Who had seen her go to the Doctor’s house last night? Who thought it was their business to tell Mr. Gregson? And why had she been so foolish as to go in the first place?

The estate suddenly felt stifling, as though the walls were crashing in on her. What was she to do for money? Where would she go? Clara left the estate if only to catch her breath. She was in a state of mounting panic and hopelessness. This was all a complete misunderstanding—but how could she explain herself? She had gone to the Doctor’s house last night, and had slept there. Despite nothing happening between them (which there was no way to prove), it was still a horribly scandalous thing to do, for a young maid to enter the home of a gentleman late at night, alone and unaccompanied. What reason did the Gregsons have not to suspect her? Everything added up to her being a loose woman, and with a man they perceived as terrifying, no less.

Clara started walking. She couldn’t let the tears fall. She was already missing dear Teddy and Cecily. Once again, in her time of panic and fear, she found herself going to the Doctor’s. She would drop the pills off like she planned. The walk would give her time to think and calm down. They she would go home and start packing. Simple. Not much thinking involved. 

The minutes passed by in a blur in her head as her mind swam with anxious thoughts. Before she knew it, she was standing outside of the Doctor’s home, the blue door that once offered comfort and happiness when she saw it now made her feel nothing at all. She knocked on the door and waited.

And waited.

She tried again; perhaps he hadn’t heard it. All the times she’d called on him before, however, he had answered within seconds. She waited again, and the door remained shut. He couldn’t have gone out, surely, hermit that he was, he had to be inside. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps he didn’t want to see her, but she dismissed it. She was angry with him, not the other way around. Another thought occurred to her, a thought that made her skin prickle. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She tried the handle, but it was locked from within. She bit the inside of her cheek and thought. She tried knocking once more, again to nothing.

An odd idea flitted through her brain that she almost laughed at, but upon reflection, it seemed mildly plausible, given his eccentric behavior. She pulled the strange key she’d worn under her dress and moved it towards the keyhole. It fit. She smiled to herself but only for a moment, as realization began to hit her. He was a smart man. If he’d placed his house key on her person, he must have known she would be needing it, that for some reason he would be unable to answer the door. The idea that something was wrong grew. Clara turned the key, the lock clicked open, and she pushed the door open quietly.

She entered the dark hall carefully. It was dead silent. Perhaps he really had gone out, and all of her worrying had been for naught. Clara placed the pill bottle on a table near the door and stood for a moment, listening to nothing, wondering what it was she was listening for. Seconds ticked by, and with each moment Clara was more assured that he wasn’t home. No lights were on, no fireplace was glowing; it was utterly dark. She unhooked the key from the black ribbon around her neck and placed the key on the table next to the bottle. Her overactive imagination again.

…And yet….

Just as she was turning back to the door to exit, a creeping, sighing sound, like an echo in a large hearth washed over her. Her pulse ricocheted through her veins—it was that sound again, from that thing in her room. She froze and bit back a scream in her throat. Don’t run. Don’t be afraid. You’ve heard it before. Think.

It wasn’t beside her, like in her bedroom. In fact, it sounded further away, as though it came from another room. Clara braced herself, squared her shoulders, and glared at the door in front of her. They were in the house. She didn’t know whether the Doctor was within, as well, so it may just be her and whatever it was, alone. She was feeling reckless. What did she have to lose at this point? What was she afraid of? It was time to be brave, like all of those heroines and heroes in the books she devoured. It was time to face the thing that petrified her. Be brave.

Clara quietly, cautiously took a step inward, then another. The front parlor where she’d fixed his shoulder was next to her, and appeared to be the only source of light in the house, as it had windows facing the street. Even that light was dim, however, as though heavy curtains were drawn before it. The eerie, rattling sighing sound had come from within. Clara was shaking, but she continued. Slowly, carefully, she peered around the doorframe and into the room.

The sight within electrified every nerve in her body with fear. The Doctor was in, it seemed, after all, but something was horribly, terribly wrong.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE shout-out to the flawless Elloette and the incomparable LatonaEnelraCaine for lending their eyes and minds to this chapter, helping to proofread, fix, and generally offer some much-needed help! I was especially nervous about this one, as it's the veritable climax, and their support and suggestions were so terribly important and appreciated. Hope you enjoy~

The Doctor’s eyes were wide and bloodshot, staring unfocused at nothing. He was lying on the elegant faded settee that the two had shared when she’d mended his right shoulder. He wasn’t moving, and if he was breathing, it was shallow, if at all. His face was as pale as death. He wore no jacket, only what had once been a white shirt, now terribly and deeply stained with dark blood which coated the entirety of his trembling side. The wound seemed to be from his right shoulder. The wet fabric stuck to his chest, she could see the pattern of bandages where the arm and shoulder were still wrapped across his torso. The faded red fabric of the settee looked to have returned to its original lustre beneath the prone and bleeding Doctor, as blood from his open wound stained the sofa.

But he was not alone. A figure stood beside him with its back to Clara, clad in an overly large black coat that had seen better days. The form looked strangely familiar to Clara, but the panic in her mind wouldn’t allow her to make sense of anything. The person was hovering over the Doctor, whispering something in his ear; whatever it was made the Doctor’s face twitch. Clara bit into her hand to hide a scream that was clawing up her throat. The fabric of her dress must have rustled slightly, for it got the Doctor’s attention. His eyes swiveled to see her peering around the door frame. The look in his eyes was heavy with so much, directed to her and her alone. With agony and fear, with murder ballads and soul collapsing dread. His irises, shining blue and muddled green, were iridescent against the red veins snaking through the whites of his eyes. In those irises, Clara Oswald saw everything she needed to know. She saw past the mystery and doubt. She saw the Doctor as a man. And he needed her. Clara had been waiting her whole life to be brave. This was her chance.

She gathered herself. Head up. Shoulders back, and took a step into the room so that she stood on the threshold of the madness within. Her movement seemed to get the attention of the person leaning over the Doctor, for they straightened and turned slowly around to face her, doing so made it wheeze that eerie, creeping breath that haunted her nightmares. Clara gasped and stood frozen to the spot as the face came into view. The figure was not a monster. The figure was her father. She didn’t understand. He was dead, buried in the ground seven years ago. The man standing before her looked like him, exactly the way he had before he died. A large dark cabbie hat was pulled down just over his dark eyes currently bulging from his hollowed and blackened sockets like a starving man. In his hand was a slender silver knife shining with red. His skin was pallid and his face cadaverous, his cheekbones sticking out of his face like a death mask, as though life hadn’t inhabited him in years. Perhaps it hadn’t.

“You know nothing.” The thing that was her father spoke in that same creeping, eerie, hollow sigh that echoed around the room like smoke, tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. She shook her head to clear it of the uncomfortable sound and sensation crawling over her skin. “You are ignorant.” It turned its head stiffly towards the ceiling and another gusty, reverberating exhalation slipped from between the lips. Clara remained frozen in fear; the sight was horrendous. Her father’s neck was bent unnaturally, and she could see the scars where he’d hanged himself around his white throat. His skin had a green tint over its paleness. Clara knew he was dead. But there he stood before her.

The man’s head drooped onto his chest when the exhaling eerie sigh had ceased. It hung there for a moment before he slowly lifted his head up, and Clara saw his face once more. His eyes weren’t as black as they had been, and a smile was on his lips as he looked at his daughter. “Clarissa,” he greeted, and his voice was the way it had been when she knew him, free from that echoing sigh, and Clara felt that he was really there. “Come and embrace your father.”

Clara stared at him. He sounded real, and looked real, but this couldn’t be real. She shivered as the unreality of her own reality began to tickle at the corners of her mind. Clara stared at her father and didn’t move into his outstretched and waiting arms. Her eyes fell on the Doctor, who was looking at her with words in his eyes but she could decipher only a warning. Why wasn’t he moving? Certainly he was injured, but of his entire form, not one inch had moved since she’d seen him, other than that small momentary twitch of his face. Her eyes went back to her father, fearing to leave him only in her periphery. “Doctor…” Clara said, a hybrid of question and concern.

He made no sound, nor did he make any move to speak or respond or communicate. What was wrong?

Her father was becoming agitated by her. “Come here, my Clarissa.” He repeated, but his voice was stern. Clara moved backwards a step and felt the doorway press against her back, her heart beating a tattoo against her ribcage as childlike terror and anxiety seized her. She knew the tone well. When she was younger, the tone had been a precursor to punishment. If she didn’t do as her father asked he would start to yell and he would become frightening. Clara would have to hide behind her mother or in her room. But her mother was dead and her room was gone. There was no place to hide and no one to protect her. 

She shook her head quickly. No. She was Clara Oswald, twenty-six years old, not some child. Her father was dead. He was dead.

“I didn’t raise you like this.” The man who was not her father said crossly, the red knife in his hand flicking as he gestured, catching the dim light of the room along the blade, sending bright shadows across the parlour. “You were always a thorn in my side. Leave us alone, and let me finish my work.” He turned back towards the Doctor, whose wide eyes went wider as the man’s gaze landed on him.

“Stop!” Clara blurted out. The thing didn’t. It sent the thin knife into the Doctor’s shoulder as easily as butter. The Doctor’s face flinched despite the mask of neutrality. His eyes squeezed shut in pain, and she heard a breathy groan that didn’t leave his throat. Clara ran at the monster, adrenaline pumping through her veins causing her tremble, instinct fueling her speed and strength. Only one thought was in her head, the only thought that propelled her forward; she had to stop him from hurting the Doctor. She’d closed the distance between her and that mad creature in an instant, but before she was close enough to push him or hit him, he halted her with one strong hand and laughed.

“Careful, now, or you’ll hurt him.” He grabbed her and dragged her close so that she could smell the faded pipe tobacco on his jacket that was so familiar to him when he was alive. She was assaulted as well with the smell of earth and decay and mildew and rotting, and she struggled against him violently to free herself. He seized her hand in his own calloused paw, and forced it down onto the handle of the knife as she jerked away from him to no avail, pushing and fighting as her fingers were manipulated around the dagger. Suddenly he released her, and she stood holding the knife, hilt-deep, in the Doctor’s shoulder. His watering eyes looked up at her, and Clara didn’t know what to do. She turned her head to look for the creature, and found him nowhere to be seen. She looked over her other shoulder and he was entirely gone, as if he’d vanished into thin air. Clara turned her attention back to the Doctor with a knife sticking out of his shoulder, of which she was the holder.

“How do I remove it without hurting you?” she asked, her hands shaking, her fingers stained red where her father’s hands had touched her. The Doctor only looked at her, unresponsive. “Talk to me, Doctor!” she cried. He stared at her. Bright eyes, white skin, bloody and broken, he wouldn’t speak.

Or couldn’t.

Something went off in Clara’s head like a freshly lit match. Then another. And another. Memories. Writings. Words. Everything came crashing into her like waves and boulders and carriages.

That thing in black had gone, for the moment. She held a silver knife. The Doctor couldn’t move. Whispers danced in her mind like melodic memories.

She heaved the knife out of the Doctor, which was surprisingly difficult considering she saw it melt into him so easily. She pressed her fingers to the open wound to try and staunch the bleeding, but soon realized the absurdity of the task. The Doctor would lose more blood, he would grow paler, and if he received any further wounds of this sort, he would die. She needed to act fast. She needed to fix this, to save the Doctor, and stop the monster that must still be lurking within the room, watching and listening like it had done in her bed chamber. Clara needed to choose her words carefully. She needed to tell the Doctor that she understood, without alerting the beast of her knowledge. Hadn’t the Doctor told her knowledge was a dangerous thing? Ignorance was her protection. He’d known it from the start. She held the knife right before the Doctor’s eyes, his wide blue irises followed the length of the blade before returning to Clara. “I know nothing.” She whispered to him, repeating the words he’d spoken to her the night before so sternly, hoping for some sign, any sign that he understood, that she was right about what she was rapidly making sense of. “Is that clear?”

He stared at her and her heart beat erratically in her chest. Time was so precious, and words were a currency they couldn’t trade in with that beast looming so near, invisible and untouchable at that moment. Clara held her breath when she watched the Doctor close his eyes, leave them shut for half a second, then open them again. One blink. He understood. He was affirming. She was right. She knew everything. She knew how to win. Probably. Possibly. Perhaps.

Clara stood up and turned around to scan the room, knife in her quivering hand. “Why don’t you show yourself?” she challenged broadly into the empty room, hoping she sounded brave despite her trembling. “I’ll even give you that hug you wanted.”

The echoing sigh seemed to come from the doorway, like the last breath from a dying man. She peered through the gloom, but nothing was to be found in the shadows.. Again, the sighing sounded, this time behind her. She whirled about so that she was facing the settee where the Doctor was, but was met with nothing once more. 

“Clara….” Her father’s voice sounded just behind her left ear, the stream of air ticking the hair on her neck. If she spun about she would no doubt collide with his solid body. But he wasn’t solid. Clara was about to turn, when suddenly she felt something shifting through her. Like water that had seeped through her pores and into her muscle and through her back and ribcage. She couldn’t scream or gasp or make any sound as she felt something move through her from behind. It was tight and it was painful and it was uncomfortable, she felt it pass through her organs and her body. Her mouth opened to cry out but no sound came. Her fingers began to lose their grip on the knife as the muscles in her body tensed and numbed, twitching uncontrollably at times as the sensation curdled her blood and choked her with fear and pain. She felt as though she were losing all control of her body, and in mere moments she would be unable to move entirely; already the concept of motion seemed to elude her. Her wide watering eyes found the Doctor’s, whose frantic irises were fixed on her stomach. She looked down and saw tendrils of what looked like glistening smoke sticking through her abdomen, curling and twisting. It was passing through her. It had gone through her back and out of her stomach. She watched as the snaking fog-like tendrils stuck further out of her stomach, gliding and groping for the silver knife dangling from her hand.. With all the strength and will left within her, she jerked away, stumbling, coughing, and clutching her aching stomach as the smoke ripped itself out of her body, hovering in the air where she stood moments ago.. Her shoulders shuddered as she huddled against the far wall, holding the knife close to her chest. If that thing had touched silver while it was inside of her, she didn’t want to know what would happen.

Matches were scratching. Flames were lighting. Her mind was a cacophony of thoughts. Silver. Always silver. The things could break into homes easily enough, but left through the front doors. Why would they do that? Why not leave without a trace, drift in, drift out? Because they couldn’t. Silver made them whole. It made them solid. Made them real. She thought of Hattie’s murder. Her organs were removed, but there were no puncture marks or wounds, as though someone had reached in and plucked her organs out one by one, pulling them through her stomach with an invisible hand, like worms through the earth. She nearly gagged when she still felt the creeping sensation of that thing shifting through her, mere inches from touching her silver knife. If it had become solid while it was embedded in her…no, she couldn’t think about it. Clara leaned with her back against the wall, shaking and gasping for breath as her eyes darted around the room, blinking rapidly to clear her teary vision and make sense of the shifting gloom. She was frightened beyond telling, scared for her life, and on the verge of a mental collapse. But she was Clara Oswald, and she was brave. She had to be.

The Doctor grunted softly, weakly, as though it took all of his strength to make any kind of sound at all. She looked up through blurred vision and saw something translucent standing behind the settee across the room. The dim light creeping through the drawn windows was the only thing illuminating the specter. It was formless, faceless, lacking any definition whatsoever. It wasn’t human, it wasn’t animal, it was nothing. It hovered over the Doctor. That eerie mournful sighing, a sound that was Clara was beginning to know better than she’d like to, resonated from the pellucid monster. She saw those smoky tendrils snake down over the Doctor’s chest. Her heart burned in erratic rhythm too fast to measure; only felt as a constant vibration. It was going to do to him what it had unsuccessfully tried to do with her moments ago. Remove his organs, starting with his heart, from the looks of it. And the Doctor was helpless.

//“A local anesthetic, really, it’s not meant to sedate the entire body, but it can, if the dose is just right.... I imagine the full body sensation of a dose of this would be akin to sleep paralysis. Terrifying.”//

She saw the tendrils sink down towards his chest, directly over his heart. She couldn’t make it in time, she was too far across the room. She shoved her numb body away from the wall and lurched towards the Doctor, hoping to stop the specter somehow before it removed his heart like it had killed Hattie.

The tendrils dissolved against his chest, and she knew all was lost. Before she could cry out, she realized that the tendrils weren’t entering his chest at all; they were stuck, suddenly the solid fingers of the corpse-like monster. The man in the long black coat materialized over the Doctor, his fingers touching just above his heart, the attempt to broach the Doctor’s chest halted. Something was stopping him from remaining translucent. Something was making him solid. That moment’s hesitation and confusion on the monster’s part was all the time Clara needed to close the gap between them. Clara pulled the dagger back and roared, throwing herself over the settee and the Doctor to reach the beast in black, both hands gripping the knife towards the exposed chest of the monster. She slammed the silver knife into the solid form of her father, and watched as the thing crumpled and screamed and twitched violently. Tendrils of that glistening smoke poured from every orifice, from his eyes, his ears, his nose, his mouth, and from the wound. He was dissolving before her. A deep guttural sigh fell over the room and Clara watched as her father died a second time, disintegrating into utter nothingness. The knife clattered to the floor from where it had only just been plunged into his heart; the space where it was once held fast was empty, and gravity played its role. Clara didn’t realize until he was gone that she was crying. She hugged her arms to herself as she sank to the floor and shook with tears that wracked her frame, for how long she knew not.

“Clara,” the Doctor’s voice was hoarse beside her, ragged and thin. She composed herself as best she could, wiping her face with a sleeve before turning and resting an arm on the cushion of the settee. She looked at him through her tears, this wisp of a man prostrate against his will on this damnable sofa. His eyes were smiling, his mouth was trying, but the sedative was too strong. “You are the most intelligent creature I’ve ever met.”

She smiled weakly through her tears. “Why didn’t it kill you?”

“See for yourself.” his eyes darted to his chest and back again, imploring her to examine his torso. She sat up and peeled his shirt back over his left ribcage with shaking fingers. Just over his heart, right where she had left it, was her silver hairpin.

“Thank you.” He managed gravelly, pride in his eyes as he attempted to smile. “You saved my life.” He winced, no doubt from the pain, and had to shut his eyes. “It took the form of your father?”

Clara nodded, then realized he couldn’t see, so she spoke in the affirmative. Two of her fingers were idly stroking the silver hairpin against his chest, marveling at it.

“Wasn’t real.” he croaked, “Takes the form of the dead, if it’s ever seen. It’s how it confuses people, how it stops them from fighting back—” he inhaled sharply; breathing and speaking seemed to be extraordinarily difficult.

“Doctor,” she breathed. His eyes cracked open and looked to her with those irises like crystalline galaxies. “Let me help you.”

He stared at her with such sadness. “After everything I’ve done.” his frail voice was shaking. He paused for a moment before continuing, “Everything I’ve said to you—and what I haven’t said, Clara,” he swallowed hard, breathing haggard. “You owe me nothing.”

She reached a hand up around his head and ran her fingers through his hair damp with sweat from fever. The touch was soothing, she’d done it so often with Teddy and Cecily. “Daft man,” she chided softly, fingers curling through silver locks, “I want to help you. You think I’m offering to repay some debt? You think I’m here out of some duty? Doctor, I—” she paused as she let the realization of her next words truly hit her, “I care about you.”

She watched the Doctor’s eyes shine and gloss over with his own tears at her words. He couldn’t hide them by turning his head, nor could he stop them by brushing them away. He was helpless to his own emotions before her; vulnerable, human. The mask had finally cracked. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came forth. He tried to clear his throat, the act was difficult, given that he was paralyzed so profoundly. “Clara…Clara that means more to me than I could say. I never wanted to push you away, I was so afraid you would—all this time I was only trying to protect you.”

“And how many times have I told you I need no protecting?”

“You need answers. I’m going to tell you everything. I can now. Listen to me—”

“No.” she cut him off with a finger. “Absolutely not. Not until you’re taken care of. Do you have an antidote for this sedative?”

He seemed to concede. “In the cupboard. Small brown bottle, bluish label, I think. A needle, too. Should be in a desk drawer.”

Clara went to his study and retrieved the bottle in question, and found a clean syringe. She returned and knelt beside him, uncorking the bottle and dipping the syringe within to soak up the liquid. “It was here the whole time, wasn’t it? That thing?”

“Unbeknownst to either of us.” He shut his eyes and grimaced. His shoulder must have been causing him such pain. “That’s how it knew about this drug, from when I told you.”

“I figured that much out, at least.” Clara had filled the needle and held it up so he could see. He looked surprised.

“Where did you learn that?”

“You.” She smiled. “Where do I…”

“The vein in my arm there, my left, as my right is more or less grilse,”

Clara carefully leaned over him and rolled up his left sleeve until the green vein at his elbow was visible. In a few seconds she’d administered the antidote and sat back on her heels, biting her lip. “How long until…” as she spoke she saw his fingers twitch and a heavy sigh caused his chest to rise and fall for the first time—the sedative had constricted his breathing but was wearing off. She ran another hand through his hair as he began to come back to himself, wiggling his extremities and breathing deeply. He opened his mouth as wide as it could go before closing it again, made his eyebrows go up and down twice, and rolled the wrist of his left hand around. His turned his head slowly to look at her, his neck regaining movement. Their eyes locked, and Clara felt her breath catch. His eyes were pools of verdant crystal, peppered with azure drops like ice. She felt as though his gaze was the only thing holding her to the earth, and if he were to blink or look away in that moment, the spell would break and she would float or drift off into the ink abyss. An anchor amid a sea of dark days and bleak nights. She felt part of herself mend, as she stared into his eyes, and the feeling was strange, for she didn’t know she had been broken. 

She understood. His duty of care. When one saved a person, their life to you became more precious than anything in the world. Clara felt that his life was her responsibility, not just in this moment or in moments past, but all of those future moments to come. Clara wanted nothing more than to keep the Doctor safe for the rest of time, never to see him in pain or hurt again. The unspoken promise flooded through her eyes, and something in him seemed to change, as though he could hear her solemn oath. His lips parted slightly to speak, but words failed him.

“How do you feel?” she murmured, fingers entwining in his hair.

“Better.” was his whispered reply.

Clara was the one to blink, finally ending their deep and profound shared stare that felt intimate beyond anything she’d ever experienced. “Now your shoulder.”

His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way of his, “And then answers.”

She nodded. “And then answers.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in updating! Midterms were hell. Officially on break :) 
> 
> This chapter concludes the current arc, but this isn't the end of the story! I intend to write two other similar arcs (think of them like episodes? idk), so this fic is far from over. Check out the sequel, Physicians and Philosophies, part of this collection! 
> 
> Want some music to read this to? Elloette made this amazing playlist for the fic! I'm so blown away by it, it's perfect: http://8tracks.com/elloette/physicians-and-phonographs

Clara played nurse the rest of the afternoon. The sun started to set and she lit lamps throughout the parlour. Shortly after dusk the Doctor’s mangled shoulder was stitched and patched up thoroughly. The damage had been worse than she’d initially thought. Two fingers on his right hand were broken, and the skin was torn and pierced all up and down his arm. Stab wounds were all over his already injured shoulder, and Clara knew why the Doctor’s voice was so hoarse and ragged now. He had screamed for hours and hours as that thing had tortured him all morning and afternoon, between when Clara left and when she had returned. She understood what the Doctor had said about knowledge being dangerous. She felt terrible that she had pushed him for answers when all he had been trying to do was keep her safe.

“Why did it want you, Doctor?” she asked once she had settled him in his wingback chair in what she was quickly beginning to associate with being Their Room. The front parlour where the action and trauma of that afternoon was too suffocating, so she’d helped him move to the room stuffed to bursting with books with the coal fireplace.

He watched her as she knelt on the stone hearth beside him. “I’d figured it out.”

“Why didn’t it just kill you, then?”

He raised his eyebrows and gestured to his heavily bandaged and splinted right arm. “I would venture to say the attempt was made.” He faltered beneath her heavy gaze. He shifted in his seat and his tone became serious. “I knew what they were, and what they wanted. What they needed. They wanted to know how much I knew, and to be certain I’d told no one else.”

“Me?”

“You were a source of discussion, yes.”

She cocked her head at him. “What was it?”

He let out a deep breath through his nose and rubbed his brow with his free hand. “I’m not entirely sure, I’m afraid. That is to say, I’d heard of them in an old story when I was young. Children’s fancies. Fairytales. The tale was some moral yarn about keeping one’s valuables locked up and listening to one’s mother, as most stories are.”

Clara shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

He smiled weakly at her, and she saw a twinkle in his tired eyes. “I should have mentioned it was Scottish. Goes back hundreds of years, it’s no wonder why you hadn’t heard of it. The story went more or less as follows.

“A young boy steals a silver spoon from a neighbor. That night, a pellucid monster comes into his home to steal it back from him. When the monster touched the silver, it turned into the physical form of his mother. The boy saw the beast transform, and the next morning his mother was found murdered. The boy went mad, haunted by his mother for the rest of his life. Another version of the story is that the beast turned into the boy, and when the boy saw himself, he died. The monster became solid when it came in contact with silver.”

The coal fireplace popped behind her and Clara jumped slightly as a shiver trailed up her spine as she thought of the beast she’d confronted within that very hour that had taken the form of her father. “A children’s story? How did you think it was real?”

“All stories are based in truth. Every fairytale started someplace.” He looked like he wanted to say more but stopped himself.

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment in thought. “Was it—” she paused, collected herself, “You said they took the form of the dead. It was my father when I came into the room. What was it with you?”

“All of the faces I couldn’t save.”

Clara watched her fumbling fingers. “From the war?”

His voice was quiet. “Yes.”

“Were you scared?”

“Of the war?”

“Of everything.”

“I live a waking nightmare, Clara. The past is never passed, the present is the entirety of one’s own history, and the future is made up of histories not yet written. I have lived, I do live, and I will live with all of my actions.”

“Your actions scare you?”

He studied her face for a time, as though attempting to divine some answer. “Have you ever made a mistake that you’ve deeply regretted?”

She cocked her head. “Of course.”

“What if your entire life was made up of those mistakes? Every moment of every day constructed of those small catastrophes. Wouldn’t you be petrified?”

Clara stared into his eyes reflecting the newly lit fire. “Never.”

He blinked at her and frowned. “Never?”

“Not of my future, which I think is what scares you the most. All your talk of the past, you speak as though it will always be repeating itself, but the future isn’t written, Doctor, and it never will be. Past catastrophes, however small, do not represent what the future will hold. I think you’re petrified of the past duplicating itself, so you’ve locked yourself away here for over a decade to hide from it, but by doing so, you’re also hiding from your future.”

His mouth opened in surprise and his eyebrows knit together. Clara leaned forward and gently laid a hand on his bandaged arm. “Doctor, I think, before I grow too bold in my ascertains of your character, you ought to tell me about your past. If you have the energy.”

The Doctor slowly and tentatively placed his free hand over hers. His eyes stayed on their hands for a moment, his larger one nearly eclipsing her own. The look on his face was a strange mixture of hope and fear, as though she would vanish into thin air at any moment. Finally, he met her gaze with his, and the look was resolute. He nodded almost imperceptibly and pursed his lips. “I am at liberty to do so now. Clara, I want to offer my sincerest apologies before I begin, for not being able to tell you before.”

“You knew they were listening,” she interjected lightly, “you couldn’t tell me.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t that. I couldn’t tell you, because I didn’t want you to run away.” Clara watched the earnest look shine in his large eyes as he continued. “And I didn’t want that. I admit that to you now as I admit it to myself. I was afraid you’d leave, and that…” his eyes fell onto their hands once more and she felt his thumb trail against the back of her hand, as if to assure himself she were real. “…was the last thing I wanted. I realize in withholding that information, I risked you leaving twice over, and I am truly sorry for that. I should have been straight forward with you, I should never have kept anything from you, I should have—”

“Doctor,” Clara cut him off by placing her other hand atop his so his fingers were nestled between both of hers. “You’re still stuck in the past. ‘Should haves’ don’t matter. You’re here, and I’m here, right now. I’m not running, Doctor.” She squeezed his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he held hers just as tightly until they were holding hands with one another with desperation and care. “I’m here.” She repeated firmly, for it looked as though he needed to hear it again; he kept looking at her as though she was a ghost.

They stared at each other. Still, after everything that had happened, after everything she’d told him, he looked afraid to tell her. But that didn’t seem to matter, for he started his tale, every now and again his fingers would trace patterns against her wrist or the back of her hand, circle her thumb and lace and re-lace themselves through her fingers. It was like her touch made him brave, and so he spoke with her hand in his for the duration.

“I’ll start where the Lieutenant so kindly began. I was a doctor before the war. I was drafted and sent to India to fix broken men beyond repairing. I watched people die for no reason and could do nothing. I was helplessly wrapping up some poor sod’s broken arm only so he could be sent right back to the front lines. It was pointless and it was painful and it was madness. But that’s war, isn’t it? It’s all mad. You have to be mad to take any part of it and come out with a shred of sanity.

“I was in India for a span of nine months. I saw more people die than I can ever hope to count. Soldiers, civilians, children. There were so many bodies graves couldn’t be carved out fast enough, and so they piled the bodies in great stinking mounds like monuments testifying the pointless horror of that war. I’d see men I patched up end up on those piles within a day. The men in charge didn’t care if a solider had a broken leg—they needed cannon fodder for the front lines. Any man could tip the opposition in their favor, they said. Some of the brave-heart soldiers actually believed that, but most of them knew better. They knew they were fighting for a cause that made no sense and killing and dying for no reason. Those sad souls had been drafted and had no choice. They were also the first ones put at the front.

“It soon became apparently clear that there were worse things we were up against than the so-called enemy. Renegade marauders, as I shall call them for now until I explain their motives and characters further, were the source of much death on our side. Men were dying and I didn’t know why. Murders I thought, but then I thought the deaths to be of some kind of disease. In hindsight, both were true.

“I had a patient, a soldier by the name of Jude, I’d been attending him for a gunshot wound to the neck. I managed to save his life, actually, which even I didn’t think I could do. He was recovered after the surgery and was awake and talking the next day, and looked to be making a full recovery, despite the occasional fevered outbursts, and paranoia, but that was to be expected from the trauma. The second day after his surgery, I found him dead. The wound on his neck had apparently ruptured, and he’d died in the night. I am loathe to remind you we had no graves, so his body was tossed on the pile of corpses.

“The night passed, and the next morning four other soldiers, who just that previous day were of sound mind and body, began to exhibit signs of malnourishment and illness. I could discern nothing physically wrong with them, but ran as many tests as I could with the rudimentary equipment I had at my disposal. The night past, and the next day, thirty new soldiers became infected—you notice I use this word, for whatever was incapacitating these men was all the same, and it was spreading rapidly. I felt powerless to stop it, as the next day, over sixty other men contracted the same disease. I couldn’t treat them. I couldn’t cure them, I didn’t know what was wrong with them, and the first ones, they weren’t just ill anymore—they were dead. Everyone was dying of this thing and I didn’t know why. But I was starting to get an idea.

“I had to perform a few minor experiments on the patients living with the disorder. Once one started showing symptoms, they had at the most three days to live, if they were lucky. I found them to be extremely light sensitive, more and more as they grew closer to death to the point that they would visibly recoil and cry out if it touched them. Their blood was thin and watery, their skin was pale, and they all looked like starving men upon their death, no matter how much they had been consuming. My curiosity was piqued, I admit, more than my concern.

“It went on like this for a week and a half. Men would get sick, stay sick, and die. Every day more victims of death and the disease. I could find out nothing substantial, and was getting more desperate and intrigued by the day. I will admit I may have gone too far in some of my experiments. The men were dead anyway, I thought, what difference did they comfort make if discoveries through them could save lives? I admit it was reckless of me, and if I could go back I never would—but there I go again.

“It was around this time Lieutenant Pink arrived with his men. Only a scant few remained from the army I was originally stationed with. The survivors were in a state of utter trauma. Fighting an enemy they couldn’t understand or see, a plague is enough to destroy the strength of any man. I stayed away from the new soldiers, didn’t see the point of talking with them if they were all going to die, after all. I went off to seek a cure. I had an idea of what was killing the men. I’d read about a disease such as the plague killing all of the soldiers, and knew what had to be done. It was a disease rooted in magic. It involved sacrifices, not of the bodies, but of souls. They had to be given willingly. At the time, I thought the trade would be worthy of the benefits; the souls of a few soldiers for the lives of the rest. I was wrong, and I’ll admit it, but I didn’t feel I had a choice.

“I summoned the monster that had been making the soldiers ill. I bartered the souls of five soldiers with the beast so it would stop killing all of them. I didn’t understand the fine print. I didn’t realize the gravity of trading souls. I found out later that the souls of the soldiers would belong to the monster only when the soldiers died. This discovery came shortly after this.”

The Doctor told Clara about the soldiers who began to rise from the dead after they were killed. He told her when he discovered the community of Indians who had all lost their souls to the monster. Dead shells of former humans desiring to kill.

“I had to burn it to the ground.” He affirmed. “All of them. They weren’t human, they were monsters. I set the hut on fire and listened to them scream.”

He told her how he had to cut off the heads of the dying soldiers in the Lieutenant’s camp, as they were going to die and come back. He was taken prisoner by Pink and left to die in the sandstorm. 

“And that’s about the end of it.”

Clara blinked. Certainly there was more to the tale. “How did you survive?”

He smiled at her. “I’m the Doctor. Getting out of tight scrapes is what I do best.”

“Well what were they?”

“The name for them is ancient and sounds a bit like a strangled cough, but the closest thing I could relate them to would be vampires.”

Clara blinked at him. “Vampires?”

The Doctor held up a finger. “They were not vampires, only similar in the way that they would die, revive, and kill. Clara, I would ask you to expand your mind for a moment to consider that everything you’ve ever heard of, every monster you’ve ever dreamed about, all of those ghouls hiding beneath your bed are real.”

She stared into his eyes for a long moment. “After today, it’s not as hard to imagine as you think.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. Finally he spoke, “I imagine after all of this you want to leave.”

“Why?”

He cocked his head. “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Petrified.” She replied bluntly. “But you seem like the only man on earth who knows what’s happening. I’d rather know what’s under my bed thank you very much.”

He smiled at her. Before he could speak, his eyes flicked to the clock above the mantle and his face dissolved into concern. “Clara, it’s late—the Gregsons, your job—”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Of course it’s a problem—”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.

“Clara, your job is—”

“It’s not my job, not anymore.” She felt tears pricking her eyes and she blinked them back. She smiled at him. He cocked his head.

“Have they sacked you? What are you to do? Don’t you live there?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“When are you to leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Have you something lined up?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He pursed his lips. “I—that is to say, it doesn’t sound that way. If I might be so bold, perhaps only temporarily, if you like, offer, and I know it’s not decent, but seeing as the situation is currently—you might consider staying here, until you found…something.”

His words hung between them like a heavy fog. Could she believe her ears? Had he asked her to live with him? She felt too many emotions to decipher any one in particular. She studied his flushing face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, unable to meet her gaze. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I only wanted to—”

“You would allow me to call this home?”

A half-smile pulled at his lips sheepishly and his eyes sparkled. “If you want it to be.”

She did. More than anything. The thought didn’t surprise her. But the thought that it didn’t surprise her surprised her.


End file.
